


SHERLOCK AND JOHN- REBELLION OF ANGELS

by skyefullofstars



Series: THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF Anthea, BAMF John, BAMF Mycroft, BAMF Sherlock, Betrayal, Childhood Trauma, Dreams and Nightmares, Drug Addiction, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Espionage, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Non-Consensual Drug Use, PTSD John, PTSD Sherlock, Psychological Trauma, Slash, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-20
Updated: 2016-09-24
Packaged: 2018-01-25 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 247,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1660586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skyefullofstars/pseuds/skyefullofstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 1 - ACCLAMATIONS - Sherlock has a revelation concerning John's addiction.  But does it come too late?  Mycroft undergoes a crisis of self.  Mummy plans the wedding of the decade:  Her son, Sherlock, to Capt. John Watson.  Part 2 - PRINCIPALITIES - A threat from Sherlock and Mycroft's past threatens the boys' honeymoon and Mycroft & John find themselves in a battle for Sherlock's life - and soul.  PRINCIPALITIES will begin posting after ACCLAMATIONS is complete.<br/>Sequel to THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET.  Part of the THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: Acclamations**

**Ch. 1**

**THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON** – Book One

 **THE BOYS OF BAKER STREET –** Book Two

 **SHERLOCK AND JOHN - REBELLION OF ANGELS –** Book Three, Parts One and Two

OooOooO

**ACCLAMATIONS: Cast of Characters, Revolving:**

**Sherlock Holmes, Sir - Consulting Detective (Genius), holder of three University degrees, Chemist, recovered (?) drug addict, betrothed companion to Doctor John H. Watson (the only enduring mystery in Sherlock's life – save one)**

**John H. Watson, Sir – former Captain, RAMC, recipient of the Victoria Cross, medical doctor and experienced battle surgeon, suffers from recurring PTSD, recovering drug addict (currently stripped of his medical license), betrothed companion to Sherlock Holmes**

**Mycroft Holmes, A minor official in the British Government, elder brother of Sherlock (Official Secrets Act prevents further disclosure)**

**Victoria Regina Elizabeth Holmes (modern Goddess not in disguise), known as Regina, mother of Mycroft and Sherlock, Keeper of the Holmes family secrets, of which there are several**

**Mrs. Martha Hudson, Landlady, (not their housekeeper), Surrogate Mum and Confidante to Sherlock and John, baker of Fairy Cakes (lemon), proud of her Boys**

**D.I. Gregory Lestrade, widowed father of two young daughters, a good man, but lonely, had it up to here with 'all things Holmes,' including John Watson**

**Anthea / Lizabeth (Modern Goddess in disguise), betrothed to Agent Jacob Lynn. (Secrets Act invoked)**

**Agent Jacob "Jake" Lynn, Hero, employee of aforesaid minor U.K. official; betrothed to Lizabeth; friend and confidante of Doctor John H. Watson, took bullets meant for Sherlock, doesn't regret it.**

**Deborah – No Last Name (Secrets Act), goddess in training, assistant to Anthea**

**Agent Don Williams, Hero, employee of minor U.K. official, friend of Doctor John H. Watson**

**Agent Terry Roaman, Hero, employee of minor U.K. official, friend of Doctor John H. Watson (the tattoos are his idea)**

**Agent Rob Enders, Hero, Deceased. Former employee of minor U.K. official. Died saving Doctor Watson's life. John cannot forgive himself.**

**Lori Hansen, R.N., Hero, savior of and friend to Doctor John H. Watson. Father MIA in Afghanistan. Tiny but courageous. Betrothed to:**

**Joe Rodriguez, Sgt., employed by D.I. Lestrade, betrothed to Ms. Hansen**

**Officer Cates, partner to Sgt. Joe Rodriguez**

**Anthony Hale, Artist, Writer, Filmmaker, former betrothed of Rob Enders**

**Tony Enders, younger brother of Rob Enders. Tony's life was saved by Captain John H. Watson in Afghanistan, and he is now the father of twin boys: John and Robbie. ***

**Dr. Margaret Oakton, Psychological Consultant, Hero, "freelance" employee of U.K. official, she and Mycroft have a shared history (?), betrothed to:**

**Dr. Galen Dennison, Addiction Psychiatrist, Hero, betrothed to Maggie Oakton**

**Dr. Thomas Fields, the Holmes Family Physician (you should be so lucky), still makes house calls**

**Molly Hooper, Forensic Pathology Assistant, St. Bart's morgue, nobody's baby, trusted friend of Sherlock Holmes**

**Harriet "Harry" Watson, recovering alcoholic, divorced sister of Dr. John H. Watson**

**D.I. Dimmock – "I go where you point me, Mr. Holmes."**

**Clara, formerly married to Harriet Watson, occasional confidante of Dr. John H. Watson**

**Angelo, Proprietor of Italian Restaurant frequented by Holmes and Watson, friend of Sherlock. Sherlock and John's money is no good at Angelo's**

**Sherlock's Homeless Network, Revolving**

**The Sub adjutant to the Korean delegation, likes them tall and ginger**

**Mr. Harry Jenkins – Regina's Driver (too Elderly to drive, according to British law); treasured "family" member and all around dogs body**

**Mrs. Robinson, Housekeeper to Regina Holmes, insists on ironed sheets and freshly-aired linens, takes guff from no one, including Regina, takes a shine to John Watson**

**Dr. William Merit, Cardiologist, friend and colleague of Maggie Oakton, John Watson's doctor at St. Anne's**

**Dr. Anderson, Forensic Specialist and Pain in the arse, particularly at crime scenes, he and Sherlock detest each other, usually**

**James Moriarty (the memory of), Criminal Mastermind, deceased**

**Sally Donovan (the memory of), Police Sgt., deceased**

**Sebastian Moran (the memory of), soldier of fortune, deceased**

**Dr. Marcus Franks (the memory of), cowardly disgrace to the title of Physician, deceased**

**Lord Bennett Crandall, "missing" member of the House of Lords, murdering bastard, member of terror cabal, cousin to:**

**Gianetta Crandall, neighbor to Regina Holmes, cousin of Bennett, likes them young with stamina, not involved in terror cabal**

**Ronald Adair, enigmatic, cold-hearted, plotting bastard, successor to James Moriarty (deceased criminal mastermind), wants Holmes and Watson dead, willing to bide his time – up to a point**

**Billy, nephew and employee of Angelo**

**Dr. Virgil Thompson, Rector, Saint Bartholomew's parish**

**Miles Jackson, coward and murdering bastard, member of terror cabal, soon to go "missing" in the Amazon**

**Thea Brown, mentally confused murderess, member of terror cabal**

**Cynthia McReedy, extremely mentally confused accessory to murder, sister of deceased agent James McReedy, indirectly involved in terror cabal, tried to kill John**

**Michael "Mick" Billings, "missing" soldier of fortune, assassin**

**Jonathan Glenn, "missing" soldier of fortune, assassin**

**Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth II (cameo role)**

**Various household staff in the Holmes family mansion**

**Various medical doctors, nurses and specialists**

**Various members of the English aristocracy - some of them sober**

**Doctor David Brisco, Haematologist, head of the lab utilized by Callista/Anthea, broken-hearted at her engagement, tries to keep a stiff upper lip**

**Enrique Stephanos Cordoa, Sherlock's physical therapist – and violin instructor**

**The pharmacist at St. Anne's**

**Mysterious stranger - # 1**

**Mysterious stranger - # 2**

**One Guarneri violin, Il Tramonto Rosa – " _The Sunset Rose",_ insured for upwards of £ 13 million, sterling, currently in the safekeeping of: Sherlock Holmes, Sir**

**And one vintage Harley-Davidson motorcycle – brilliant yellow (originally)**

**OooOooO**

**CH. 1 WARNINGS:** REAL LIFE, which can be a Royal Bitch at the best of times. Language; references to Drug Addiction, both ongoing and former; Disturbing Dreams; Thoughts of Self Harm; And enough heartfelt declarations of love and affection to cause you to go blind. Oh, yeah: ANGST.

 **PROMISE:** **Men verbally pummeling each other.**

(This ongoing work depicts two men in a consensual, adult relationship, with all of its connotations, often bordering on extreme possessiveness. It also frequently depicts violence, including scenes of torture and cold-blooded murder. (Not to mention enough sugary fluff to rot your back teeth.) I trust that if you are underage, you will pay attention to the Chapter Warnings.  If you choose to skip a chapter, I won't fault you at all. Just so we're clear. Thanks! "sky" )

**OooOooO**

**Is this the world, the dreams,**

**the loves, events, delights,**

**we spoke about so much together?**

**Is this our human life?**

**Giacomo Leopardi**

**The Canti – To Silvia (XXI)**

**OooOooO**

There is a man, a doctor and a surgeon by education, a soldier by training, seasoned in combat, a warrior and leader of men, courageous in battle, tempered in blood, with an unassuming nature and an open heart - in so much emotional pain, he can barely breathe.

There is a man, holder of the equivalent of three University degrees, a brilliant chemist, with a mind like quicksilver, capable of exhibiting extraordinary leaps of logic, far beyond the kin of what is considered "normal" – terrified of screwing up the most important job of his life – keeping his partner alive.

That these two individuals live with each other is a matter of simple observation.

That these two individuals live _of_ and _for_ each other is not always discernible.

And that is their problem in a nutshell.

OooOooO

**LULL**

**221B Baker Street – 01:00 a.m.**

**33 hours after Rob Enders' death; 10 hours after John's last attack**

The thunder sounds far off. It hasn't reached them yet, but the wind has picked up and Sherlock hears it as it rockets around their building.

Sherlock turns his wrist and glances at his watch dial. His eyes widen and he gently withdraws his arms from around John. He manages to extricate himself from his Army doctor without awakening the man, leaves their bed, then quickly pads, barefoot, to their kitchen. He finds what he is looking for in the refrigerator, fills the syringe and gathers a few supplies. Back in their bedroom, he sits on the edge of their bed and regards the sleeping man in front of him.

John Watson is drowned in sleep. He breathes so quietly, Sherlock can barely hear it under the sound of occasional wind gusts. He watches John's chest rise and fall in the faint light that comes from their window. Sherlock leans to the side and turns on the bedside lamp on its lowest setting. John does not awaken or indicate by the slightest movement that he is aware the other man has left their bed.

Sherlock gently turns John's right arm toward him. He stops moving and his pale eyes narrow at the signs of the frequent needle injections that track up and down John's arm. After a moment's hesitation, he wipes John's skin with the alcohol swab he has with him, then carefully injects the hypodermic under the skin. All the while, he watches John's face for some sign that his doctor is cognizant of what is happening to him.

Sherlock frowns at this, as he holds the tiny piece of cotton in place over the injection site for a moment, then places the empty syringe on the bedside table. Finally, he stands and watches John breathe, lit by the faint yellow glow. He notes the slight sheen of sweat that covers John's forehead. John turns over in his sleep, and his hand automatically reaches out for Sherlock. _At least he is not in the throes of nightmare,_ Sherlock thinks, grateful for small favors.

After watching John for any signs he is rejecting the formula, the detective clicks the lamp off, crawls carefully back into bed, scoots toward his sleeping doctor, and pulls the covers back over them both. John murmurs once, then settles back down immediately.

Snuggled against John, Sherlock lies in the dark and listens to the wind as it picks up and the distant sound of thunder, no closer now than it was a few minutes before. The rain has not begun, it may even pass them over, doubtful, but the wind is now a constant. Sherlock hears it as a steady percussive as it attacks their windows. He shuts his eyes and tries to sleep, but the wind, staccato, interrupts his thought patterns.

Beside him, John begins to stir. And moan.

OooOooO

**VISION**

John is dreaming.

In John's dream, he runs in and out of the cells, each one colder and seemingly more gray than the last, each one built of stone, from what appear to be ancient carved blocks. A few of them have heavy wooden doors, partially eaten away. Most do not. The floors are impacted dirt, some of them have traces of sand in the corners. A few rooms have what appears to be actual concrete floors, frigid underfoot. It may be concrete. He's not certain.

He's not certain of anything at the moment. Only of his growing fear.

He searches desperately as he runs, his fists clenched at his side. His hands are balled so tight, he can feel the single band of engraved precious metal that circles his finger as it presses into his skin. He gives each room a cursory glance, then hurries to the next. There appear to be dozens of rooms, hundreds, all connected by a narrow corridor. How can he possibly search them all before the Dark overwhelms him?

" ** _John."_**

Each room is barren. Empty. Well, nearly. Some of them show signs of previous occupation in the chains that lie in the corners, coiled upon themselves and rusted. At least, he thinks the dull red tint is rust. He does not pause to examine them further. He hopes it is rust.

As he runs, his breath comes in gasps and his heart labors, but he doesn't slow down. He calls _his_ name, over and over. The two precious syllables echo down the long passageway. He can hear and feel occasional gusts of wind as the frigid air blasts its determined way into the ancient structure, ricochets off the stone walls, then pushes against his face as he runs. He is chilled now to the bone. But he keeps on running. And calling.

" ** _John."_**

The corridor seems to lengthen, as these things are wont to do in dreams, and becomes darker. John is achingly aware that he has long since left the Light behind him.

He calls out and shudders at the hoarse sound of his own voice. There is precious little time left, he knows. He's known for hours that he's being followed. **

He hears something close behind him. Closer still. He cries out.

" ** _John!"_**

**_OooOooO_ **

**RESPITE**

**221B Baker Street – 1:20 a.m.**

"All right now?"

Sherlock's voice is low, the beautiful baritone not as hoarse-sounding as it was two days earlier.

John does not answer, disoriented from the nightmare. He shifts against the other man, and tries to dispel the disquieting dream by glancing around their dark room, first at the window, the outline of which he can just make out in the shifting light, then at the small bedside table. As his eyes adjust to the gloom, they widen. He realizes a hypo lies there.

_Shite. Is he – was he so out of it he didn't even realize? Did Sherlock – why didn't Sherlock wake him?_

" _Later for that_ ," John thinks. _First –_

"Where were you?"

It is a demand, spoken in a harsh whisper. John's voice is jagged. He wants to know.

Sherlock's eyes close in pain, then he reopens them and bends his head toward John's neck.

"Bringing you back to life."

John's hand, now clutched in Sherlock's fingers, tightens briefly, then relaxes.

The detective hears the small intake of breath. His crystalline eyes glance toward the window, where the faint light from the street struggles, uncertain of itself. Any moment, the rain will begin, Sherlock thinks. The wind has died down somewhat and it's been a while since he heard thunder. But he can smell the rain in the air. The sky was full of it when they returned – was it less than 24 hours ago?

Once it starts, he muses, it will rain all day, for hours on end, well into the following night. Other than the basic necessities of life, he sees no reason to move from this bed today. That is, if the outside world will leave them alone, leave them in peace.

" _Give us this one day,"_ he thinks. _"Just this one. For us … No. For John."_

John moves slightly against Sherlock, his back to the detective's chest.

"Bringing me back to life."

"Yes, John. It takes time and effort. Myriad details. Mycroft is working on it, as is his assistant. But I—:"

"I needed you."

Sherlock's breath releases in one long warm huff against the back of John Watson's neck.

"Well, you've got me now."

Neither man moves.

Then – "Are you going away again?"

Sherlock's arms tighten and he pulls John closer, if that is even possible. His fingers encounter the soft pads around the new injury and he winces, moves his arm lower.

"No. John. I'm not going anywhere."

John says nothing.

Sherlock waits. The familiar sweet heartache washes over him.

After a full minute, John nods. Sherlock feels the slight movement against his breastbone.

"All right, then."

Sherlock relaxes marginally. He curls around John's back and hums softly.

"That is, unless we're out of milk and I need to go to the shops – or something."

Dead silence.

"It's official. We've reached the outer circles of Hell," John whispers. He pulls Sherlock's hand more tightly around his chest and shuts his eyes.

"Oh shut up, you idiot."

The two men sleep.

**OooOooO**

It's early for the both of them, but neither one seems to mind. He seems to have been slightly distracted all morning, although it's a word she's never used for Mycroft Holmes. She pokes her head in and smiles at him. He has written names on the pad, foregoing his Blackberry. He taps them with his pen. MILES JACKSON. THEA BROWN. RONALD ADAIR.

When she comes to stand next to him, she sees that the last name has been circled and underlined.

He glances up at her and his gaze softens. He has not missed the tiny bandage that encircles her ring finger. He, too, is a connoisseur of classic films, a habit born of too many sleepless nights and the need for some sort of mental stimulus. He assumes she changes it each morning and finds the fact charming.

Mycroft's mind works through the permutations at lightning speed.

 _"Jake Lynn, Agent Lynn, is not a man to let grass grow under his feet. Nor is he going to take the chance that she might change her mind. But he has to fully recuperate. And there's physical therapy to get through. On the other hand, Lizabeth is just as determined. She'll want things done properly. Neither one of them will want to interfere with John and Sherlock's big day. Late summer it is then. Lynn has always been one of my more determined men, so_ –" Mycroft accepts the hot mug of tea from her hands. Nods his thanks. " _First child due – bare minimum – eleven months after wedding, perhaps twelve. Fifteen months then, before she gives her notice. Perhaps less. Lynn will not want her working – or out of his sight – during the end of the second and particularly the last trimester."_

He makes a point to call his solicitor and inquire as to arranging for a trust fund for the first child. University educations are so expensive these days. It will make an acceptable wedding gift for his, his what? Right hand? Extension of self? _Try: Human being without whom he will be unable to function?_

Also, he will have to find a less _dangerous_ position for Agent Lynn. One that does not entail his new bride wondering if she will be a widow before their first child is born. He makes a note to have Anthea check into Lynn's educational background _. Perhaps Lynn will do as training instructor - or?_

Mycroft frowns and she pauses momentarily, wonders if the tea is not to his liking. He just smiles and sips again, sets it in its accustomed spot, a scant few inches to his left.

"Thank you, my dear."

He watches her go out and realizes that Anthea has not said a word to him about the engagement. So, no plans set in stone yet. She will want to be certain before she approaches him.

He nods appreciatively and goes back to reading the morning dispatches.

John. Sometime this day he must check in on John – and his git of a brother. The bugs are, after all, in place. But not just yet. He vows to let the two settle in, to readjust. Decides to give them 24 hours before he intrudes with the information Sherlock requested. He lifts the mug of jasmine tea, imported blend, and sips appreciatively.

Perfect as always.

**OooOooO**

Ronald Adair glances around the conference room. He walks to the glass wall and looks out at the lake one last time. Then he nods briskly, picks up his Blackberry where he left it on the conference table and leaves the room without a backwards glance.

Presumably the new owners will now enjoy the view.

He, on the other hand, will enjoy their cash. Immensely.

He strides out of the building, does not say a word to her as he passes her by. She watches him go. Then sighs, forwards the phone lines, and bends to retrieve her handbag from the drawer. She stands, glances around, then leaves, locking the building behind her. Well, the money was nice while it lasted.

Could have done without the severed head, though.

On the other hand, she muses, as she fits the key into the lock of her car door, she rather misses the little guy. She always knew where she stood with him, more or less. She opens the door, glances down the road at the dark car as it drives away.

 _This Adair person, on the other hand -_ she shakes her head. Gets into the car. And drives away.

Behind her, a nondescript older model car pulls out of a parking lot and follows her down the road.

**OooOooO**

**STRUGGLE**

**Baker Street – early afternoon**

"Yes, John."

"No, Sherlock. I have to be shut of this –" the doctor waves his hand at the small black case the detective holds in his long fingers.

"I can't go on like this."

Sherlock cocks his head to one side and narrows his eyes at his soldier. "Go on like what, John? Living? Go on leading a more or less normal existence? Please explain, because I am uncertain what you—"

"Oh for god's sake!"

John turns from him and goes back into their living area. He wears his jim jams and old robe. His feet are bare. He flops down in his new/old chair and stares at the carpet. The refrigerator door opens and closes. A few seconds later, Sherlock's own bare feet stand in front of him, the long toes barely touching his own. John stares at the line of healing wounds that wrap around Sherlock's ankles. He frowns.

John's heart rate has sped up and he purposefully shuts his eyes, takes a deep calming breath, then another. One more. He can hear the rain, relentless, as it savages their windows, then sluices down the outer stones of their building. He wonders if it's raining all over the world.

He can feel the faintest of tremors under his skin. He ignores it. And opens his eyes to glance up at the taller man.

To say that Sherlock's look is dark is putting it mildly. He looks down at John, all the while his left hand with its bandaged wrist taps along his side. Both men are in their pyjamas and John watches as the long fingers beat a tiny rhythm, plucking at the material of the worn flannel trousers.

He looks back up at his partner. "Bach? Mozart?"

"Sibelius." Sherlock moves away and lies down on the new sofa. Actually, he collapses into it. He leans his head back against a pillow and looks at the ceiling, one leg cocked over the knee of the other. His hand, draped across his chest, continues to finger the opening movement to Violin Concerto in D minor, then –

"John. We discussed this before. You cannot go 'cold.' Not like this. Not with the obvious cardiac response you are still experiencing."

"Watch me."

Dead silence.

Sherlock's shaggy head lifts up and he shoots a look at his Army doctor. "Interesting," he drawls.

John looks back at him. "What is?"

Sherlock just looks him over, then lets his head fall back against the pillow. "I knew you could be stubborn – but deliberately obtuse? This new attitude of yours, my dear Doctor Watson, borders on the near suicidal."

John Watson stares at his paramour and his eyes narrow in barely disguised fury.

"You don't know a damn thing you're talking about." His sturdy fingers grip the arm rest of the hated chair.

He watches as the detective brings his hands together under his chin, while he continues to look upward at the stained ceiling. The long fingers tap just under Sherlock's lips, pursed now as he appears enamored with the stains in the plaster over his head.

"You've been on this dose for - what? Nearly seven weeks total? One of those spent in a near coma-like state. The formulation has been changed twice – no, three times. I was momentarily forgetting those doses that contained the hallucinatory. This particular formulary apparently causes rather marked fluctuations in behavior, the most obvious of which is agitation, extreme stubbornness and dare I say it? Belligerence." His right foot taps a rhythm against the knee of his left leg. He does not look over at John.

"You arse." John comes to his feet and briefly considers retreating to his old room. Then he realizes there is no bed there. He fists his hands and moves to stand next to the sofa and look down at Sherlock.

The other man barely moves his head as his eyes swivel to look up into John's dark blue gaze. He cocks an eyebrow.

"Obviously. I am an arse," he drawls again in that maddeningly deep voice. His hands drop to his chest and he considers his Army doctor.

"As for my 'not knowing a thing about it,' my dear John," he watches almost idly as John's right hand clenches in a tight fist. He smiles grimly. "As for my lack of knowledge in this area, aren't we being just a tad forgetful?"

"There are times," John says in a wrecked voice, "that I actually hate you."

Sherlock smiles at the ceiling. "Hate away, John. If it makes you see reason, hate away."

He stops moving and turns his head toward his companion. "And if you're planning on hitting me, then let's get it over with, so we can get back to the discussion at hand. We both know that all things being equal, I am no match for you in a fistfight. If you feel the need to beat me to a pulp, I can hardly prevent you. It might even be cathartic … for both of us."

He swings his long legs over the edge of the sofa and sits, his hands clasped in front of him, between his knees. He continues to stare upward at John.

"By my estimation, you have approximately three minutes before you go into a full-blown attack. At which time, I will, of course, inject you with your now missed dosage. After which, you will become drowsy and sleep for at least one hour, possibly longer, given your current state of exhaustion."

His grey eyes rake over John's form, vibrating now with suppressed anger – and the unmistakable tremors that precede an attack. He continues. "Undoubtedly longer."

John barely moves. He clenches and unclenches his fists and just stands there and looks down at Sherlock's dark head. And at the short line of stitches along the top of the skull. His eyes widen.

The emotion that seems to careen off the walls suddenly dissipates – and he lets out one long breath.

He reaches one hesitant hand toward the curls. Sherlock does not flinch or recoil from him by even the slightest degree. And John notices.

"Sherlock—" his voice is low, aching. The tremors race under his skin now and he knows that any minute, any fucking second, the other man will see. Hell, he's undoubtedly already seen.

John lets his hand drop to his side. He feels deflated. Cold. When did the flat become so cold? They need to light a fire. He turns from Sherlock but the other man grabs his wrist in those long fingers and holds on.

John turns back slightly and looks down into the pale eyes. Mercuric. He frowns when he notes Sherlock's slightly dilated pupils. Pain. Sherlock is experiencing head pain. _Well, of course he is. He hasn't been taking the pills prescribed for him._

John wonders where they are. He needs to find Sherlock's pills and make the other man take them and lie down. _Yes. All right. He has a plan then._

John pulls away and Sherlock's hand loosens its grip and lets him go. He watches as John crosses to the kitchen and looks among the growing detritus on their kitchen table. He can see the tremors that shake John's body, his too thin body.

"John."

John does not find what he looks for. He lifts his head and looks toward the open door.

"Your pills," John says in a loud whisper. "Your coat?"

Sherlock comes to his feet and looks at his Army doctor. He inclines his head. "Yes. In the pocket. I'll fetch them shortly."

"No," John says. He glances from the younger man to the door. "No. I'll get them. You need to take your medication, Sherlock. And lie down. We both do."

"John." Sherlock frowns, begins to move toward John.

John's body begins to shake in earnest and his vision clouds. He lifts a trembling hand to his forehead and tries to focus on the grey gaze in front of him. Oh, bloody hell. His blood sugar has plunged. Makes sense. Neither of them has eaten in – how long? And he's undoubtedly dehydrated also _. Both of them … both of them need – Fuck, his blood is on fire. If only they still had …if only…but of course, the samples are gone and besides, Sherlock wouldn't help him by – Fuck!_

"John?"

Sherlock watches as the love of his life's eyes roll up in his head and he crashes toward the floor.

**OooOooO**

Eugenia Robinson, known to one and all in the Holmes household as Mrs. Robinson, glances around the library and nods, wholly satisfied. As she walks by table tops, her fingers trail slightly over the polished surfaces. She brings them up, rubs them together in front of her eyes. Most excellent. Not a trace of dust and Miriam has not been overly lavish with the polish.

She checks to make certain the latest newspapers and periodicals are distributed. They are.

Mrs. Holmes will be pleased. As is she.

"Mrs. Robinson?"

She glances at the doorway. Miriam stands there, neat as a pin, and waits for her orders.

Mrs. Robinson's thin lips move in the semblance of a smile. It's going to be a good day. If the men will refrain from dragging mud into the house, that is. _All this rain now_ …. As she leaves the room, she stops to adjust one of the photographs of the boys in its silver frame. She smiles indulgently at young Mycroft in his school uniform and wee Sherlock with his tumbled curls and blazing smile, holding his brother's hand. She nods briskly at Miriam and the two women leave the room, the younger trailing the elder by a foot or two.

**OooOooO**

**ACHE**

**Baker Street**

John's knees never impact the hard wood. Sherlock is there with a second to spare, catches his soldier's trembling body in his strong hands and holds on. After a few moments, he just bends and lifts the small body and lays it, as gently as possible, on their sofa. He pulls the new afghan ( _Unfamiliar. New. Mrs. Hudson?_ ) toward him and covers John's legs, then smoothes the damp spikes of hair away from the closed eyes. He stares down at the doctor's unconscious form, then shakes his head and hurries to fetch a vial of medicine and a hypodermic.

Sherlock opens the fridge to grab one of the black cases, and notes the small supply of food. Someone – Mrs. Hudson again? – has stocked fresh milk and butter, eggs, even a loaf of the bread John likes, and several jars of what appears to be homemade jam. But that's about it. He stares at the near empty shelves, and frowns. He was kidding when he told John he'd go to the shops. He has no intention of doing so if it can be avoided. Sherlock snags John's new mobile off the kitchen table as he goes back to the doctor, hypo in hand. He punches in a familiar number while he walks.

Food ordered from Angelo's, Sherlock tosses the mobile onto John's chair, then pulls up the coffee table and perches on the edge, syringe in hand. He is loath to inject the man, again, while he is unconscious but the tremors have worsened. Not for the first time, he questions when John will be on oral dosages. Surely, it's time?

He prepares the needle, _he's become quite adept at this_ , he thinks, then bends over John's shaking form and plunges the dose home. He tosses the empty syringe on the table next to him, holds a small square of cotton next to John's skin, and just watches. And waits.

Sherlock glances from John's pale face, covered now with a sheen of sweat, to the empty syringe. They will have to purchase an "official" container for these before the flat begins to resemble a drugs bust. In the meantime, Sherlock deposits them into an empty milk container.

His doctor groans and the dark blue eyes open. John stares at the ceiling for a moment, his fists clench, then relax. And he promptly shuts his eyes again. Sherlock considers his Army doctor's shaking form. He asked for one day to help his doctor recover. One day. Sherlock questions now if one year will be enough. _Two?_

Sherlock's head begins to pound in earnest and he runs both hands through his unruly hair and viciously tugs at the curls to try to bring sense to his tired mind. He thinks of his pills in the pocket of his coat, but does not consider leaving the sick man in order to fetch the bottle. And he's loath to spend this day in a state of drowsiness. He will be of no use to John like that.

Perhaps John is correct. They both need to rest. He glances at the windows. The rain comes down in grey sheets. They have nowhere to be. Nothing is expected of them on this day. As soon as John recovers from this attack and as soon as the food is delivered and he can get some down the doctor – and, yes himself - they will both retire to bed. And once they've slept, well, Sherlock can think of any number of activities to keep them in bed for the rest of the afternoon, long into the evening. Perhaps all night.

What comes tomorrow – comes.

John groans again. It's a quiet sound of pain, and Sherlock winces as he watches John come back to him. He watched John sleep for days in St. Anne's, when he wasn't certain, from one moment to the next, if the doctor was going to wake up, and when he did, if he'd still be the John Watson he knew. He watches his doctor sleep now, as if it's the very first time. He never wastes an opportunity to record fresh data about John Watson.

But in this instance, Sherlock is ready to make an exception.

He looks at the new pain lines etched into the open face, the smudged dark circles under his doctor's eyes, the too thin cheekbones, and at the left hand, which twitches, nearly imperceptibly, beside him. He calls up a mental photograph of John as he appeared in the clinic that afternoon, the day he was taken. He sees a John who was happy, healthy, at his correct weight, clear of eye and mind. He compares the two Johns - former and current – with the third John, vanishing in front of his eyes. He sees the John who awakened from his self-imposed sleep after Maggie Oakton gave him his "orders." _That_ John – _Soldier John_ \- was happy, seemingly healthy, with a bloom of – if not health, then what? Determination? Quiet self-assurance? A renewed sense of purpose? He decides all of the adjectives apply.

Sherlock frowns. How can soldier John come back when the immediacy of the moment, the need to save all their lives has passed? What can he offer soldier John to keep him by Sherlock's side?

He needs a case. He will text Lestrade first thing tomorrow.

But even if Lestrade has something for them, how can he possibly fight John Watson's belief that he was the one who should have died in that entryway – and not Rob Enders?

Sherlock looks at John and despairs. Is this to be their lives now? He, Sherlock, trying to keep John safe, to keep him alive, and John fighting him each step of the way? And when did this role reversal occur? And is he even up for it?

They are both exhausted, physically, emotionally exhausted. But John's ordeal, Sherlock muses, has been the most horrendous; his the longest road. The detective makes a note to call Maggie Oakton as soon as possible. Tomorrow, in fact. At the same time, he will check on Galen Dennison's progress. John would make it a point to do so, that is if he – Great. That's three calls and add those to his activities on John's behalf the previous afternoon -

John opens his eyes a second time, blinks, then looks at the ceiling. Sherlock waits for his Army doctor to remember where he is. It happens faster than he hopes. John, rather sheepishly, turns his head toward Sherlock. Sherlock notes the trembling has all but ceased. Excellent. Dennison's drug is working. Now if he can just keep John on schedule. He will have to have his Army doctor's help with this. He cannot be on hand all the time, although he vows to do his damndest. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson? And how will John feel about that?

Sherlock looks into the troubled, dark blue gaze with its nearly blown pupils. The two men consider each other for a moment. John's gaze softens, more with embarrassment, then anything else.

A line from one of John's favorite movies comes to Sherlock.

"How goes it with you?" he asks quietly.

John looks into his lover's concerned gaze. And attempts to smile. His face doesn't – quite – make it.

"Sherlock," he whispers. That's all.

But it's enough.

Sherlock nods. He hears the doorbell and stands but he can hear Mrs. Hudson is there before him. He looks at John, who struggles to rise, then gives it up as a lost cause and falls back against the sofa cushions with a huff.

"Rest, we're going to eat, get some water in both of us, and go back to bed. Possibly forever." He rises to go to the door, then glances back at John's rather bemused expression.

"Doctor's orders," Sherlock says.

John Watson just looks at him. And nods tiredly. "Yes. All right." His eyes close.

**OooOooO**

She sets her cup of coffee on the desk in front of her, then glances at her list, neatly typed into her Blackberry. They are nearly at the end of the more mundane of the 'must do's."

She looks up at him.

"That leaves the repairs to the Harley."

He nods, encouragingly. He, too, is ready to call it a morning. Or afternoon.

She smiles. "Unfortunately, they cannot match it. Any color, we are told, except the original yellow. They do have enough to touch it out in the original paint, here and there. But that's all they can get, unless we are willing to wait. No yellow."

She glances up at his face, and at the slight mischievous glint in his steel eyes.

"Or rainbow."

Startled, he glances at her. She narrows her eyes and regards the man she has worked alongside for – how long now?

"My dear, I would never –"

"You were thinking it," she says steadily.

He grins at her. A rarity for Mycroft and she cherishes it. "Touché. Whatever color my future brother-in-law wants, then."

She nods, satisfied. "Indian Black it is then." She makes the note on her Blackberry. _There. All done._

The two of them smile genially at each other.

**OooOooO**

**RAGE**

**Baker Street – late afternoon**

The remains of a very satisfying mid-afternoon meal are spread out over various plates, and containers, most of them with forks still in, and deposited at the end of their bed, on the floor beside the bed and on the small table next to them.

Sherlock has made it a point to watch John eat and drink and has even done so himself, as he cannot recall the last time both men shared a meal together. It was in the mansion, then. And the less said about that, Sherlock feels, the better.

The rain shows no sign of stopping. Sherlock is grateful for this as the constant downpour has helped create a cocoon of sorts around the flat – and the two men who occupy it.

Both men lie, nearly naked and propped up on pillows – and each other – in that lazy surfeit that means the world can go to hell in a hand basket – neither of them has to be anywhere and neither of them has a thing to do. Just be with each other.

"Go on," Sherlock nudges the other man by moving his shoulder slightly into John's back. "Finish it."

John's bright head lies back against the detective's bare chest. He speaks in a lazy tone of voice, as if nothing in the world is the matter. Sherlock is not deceived. But he wants to hear the end of the joke.

"Well, while the Lieutenant and I were both out – recon – Bill and his buffoons had the damn thing carted to the nearest flat hilltop, via company chopper, and when we got back, later that morning, there it was. Sitting as pretty as you please –"

"On a plateau." Sherlock says, his lips nuzzle at John's silky hair.

John nods. "Yup."

"Inaccessible." Sherlock's head bends lower and he continues the nuzzling, this time along the back of John's neck.

John sighs. Dramatically. "I thought the Lieutenant would have a stroke. Had to call the damn chopper back to bring it back down. But not before all of us got photos, that is."

He shifts marginally against the strong chest under his cheek.

"And that is why we never, ever, let Bill Murray get his hands on the keys to the company jeep after that."

John finishes with the story and he feels the chest under him tremble.

Sherlock is laughing. Granted, it doesn't happen that often. But when it does, his laughter is infectious and John can't help grinning. Sherlock's entire face lights up, the corners of his eyes crinkle, everything gets into the act.

John smiles to himself, satisfied _. Mission accomplished._ Some small part of his tired brain tells him that his thoughts aren't _On._ The medical part of his brain tells him that most of them are caused by the chemicals in his bloodstream. That he needs help. Soon. Now. But he is in so much pain at the moment, he cannot conceive of it ever lessening.

 _How can one man bear this much agony_?

He studiously ignores that part of his mind.

John disposes of his near empty plate by the simple expedient of dropping it on the floor next to their bed.

The two men lie there in companionable silence for a few moments. Sherlock continues to nuzzle and kiss the back of John's head and his shoulders. They are not urgent kisses, more affectionate than anything else. Both men are willing to bide their time.

" _Now for it_ ," John thinks.

"Will you do something for me?" John's voice is deliberately casual. His head lies on the marble chest and he can feel the small intake of breath as Sherlock answers him.

"Anything, John."

"Will you – stop? Stop this?"

Sherlock turns his head and his lips brush against John's forehead. He frowns.

"What?"

John lifts up, pulling out of Sherlock's embrace, and twists his head to look directly into the amazing eyes.

"I mean it, love. I need you to – _be_ _Sherlock_. To be yourself. And you can't. Not if you're constantly playing nursemaid to John Watson."

Sherlock's mouth opens slightly. His heart rate has sped up and he is aware he must look like a codfish, as he gapes at John Watson.

"John?"

"Stop this, Sherlock. It's not _you_. It hasn't been for some time. Surely you must see that?"

John is propped up on one arm now, which puts him at a higher angle than his love. He looks down into the mercuric eyes, which have widened. There is no way the beautiful eyes can get any larger, John thinks. He can drown in those eyes. Why do Sherlock's eyes always remind him of the sea, on a foggy day?

"John. I – "

John shakes his head, lifts a hand and brushes it through the dark curls that twist and tumble over the pale forehead.

"You need a haircut," he says with affection.

Sherlock says nothing. He just looks into John's eyes. John can see the confusion. And the heartache. Confusion and pain he has put there. _Always, always pain he has caused._ _Always._

He shakes his head. He has to get through this. If he doesn't….if he cannot make the other man see reason, then he won't be able to do what he -

"Sherlock – I can't tell you what it's meant to me. What you've done for me. I have no words. I wouldn't have blamed you if you'd run for the hills, to be honest. But you didn't. You hung in there. But you have to stop now. You have to let me find my own way out of this –" John waves a hand at their bedroom, the flat, life.

"Out of this mess I'm in. I promise to try, to do my best. I promise you that."

Sherlock stares into the dark blue eyes, even darker than usual in the watery light from their window. The rain, which lessened somewhat in the past hour, has renewed its onslaught and cascades down the glass. Sherlock finds the sound oddly soothing.

He looks into John Watson's blue eyes. He notes the innocuous smile on his lover's face, the smile that isn't – quite – John. And all his alarm bells ring.

He sees something in the blue depths that gives him pause. A memory resurfaces. _Right. Of course. This is the next step. He'd momentarily forgotten. Self-hatred first. Can self-harm be far away? And for that, Sherlock needs to be out of the way. Next, John will refuse to come to crime scenes. There'll always be a reason. He won't try anything, not at first. But eventually and soon …but perhaps he's wrong. Perhaps it's as simple as John leaving their bed, finding one of the guns …_

He looks into John's eyes, which watch him with seemingly casual interest, and he does something he hasn't done in ages.

He deduces John. And John sees it.

John squirms slightly, his eyes widen. "What are you doing?" He pulls back and sits up, pulling his knees up. Pulling away from Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock sits up, scooting the pillows behind him for support, then leans his shaggy head back against the carved headboard and stares at John Watson, stares at him from the top of his white-blond head to his dark eyes, smudged with bruising, to the thin dry lips. His gaze rakes down John's form, so much thinner now and shaking slightly with emotion – and pure exhaustion - to the arms he has wrapped around his bare knees. He notes how John's hands grip each other around his legs, grip each other so hard the knuckles have gone white.

Sherlock looks at John and his eyes narrow. _"I'm getting slow,"_ he thinks _. "I must be tired or getting old."_

John looks at Sherlock and knows he should be angry. But instead all he feels is nervousness. He licks his lips, tries again. "I said, what are you doing, Sherlock?"

The velvet drawl matches the slight grin on the detective's face. "I say it again, John Watson. Interesting."

John's eyes narrow. His heart pounds in his chest and now he _is_ angry.

"Sherlock? If you think you can pull this shite on me, after all of this time –"

"All this time, John? You mean the few months that we've actually –" Sherlock waves one languid hand, "accepted this thing between us. All this time, John?" He cocks his shaggy head and considers the smaller man in front of him. They are both in bed, they are both sitting up and John is nearly as tall as Sherlock is. Nearly. Not quite.

He smiles lazily and even as he does it, knows it is guaranteed to get him knocked on his arse. He wonders if that is what John needs. To pound the holy shite out of him – or someone.

Sherlock's mind catalogues the tells, races through the permutations, examines his own memories– and comes up with his behavior all those years ago, his actions and reactions, what he said to Mycroft, what both his brother and Lestrade had to endure during his drug years, the insane years. And Mummy, of course _. " Let's not forget what Mummy went through on my behalf. God knows, she will never forget it. Or allow me to do so."_

He fits it all together - in seven seconds flat.

His eyes narrow. He idly reaches out with his left hand and encircles John's wrist with his long fingers. John does not pull away but Sherlock feels his Army doctor tense. He glances at John's knuckles. They cannot get any whiter. His doctor's pulse races under Sherlock's fingertips.

He leans back again. "John – I do have to wonder if this isn't the biggest load of bull you have ever fed me. And that's saying something."

He drops his hand from John's wrist and clasps both his hands in front of him, starts tapping his fingers together _. Yes._ John's eyes have narrowed and Sherlock knows he is, literally, a few seconds away from a punch in the jaw.

He decides to make it easy on his soldier. "Was it cathartic? Do you feel better now?"

He waves a hand. "I have no intention of 'letting you work your way through this problem' by yourself, John. We both know where that will lead. If not to the Thames, one lonely evening, you cannot, after all, swim, then most assuredly to your decision to put the Browning to use. On yourself. But then, this is not new data. You warned me once, less than two weeks ago. Decent of you, I must say."

John's eyes seethe and his body language changes. He begins to rise from the bed.

Sherlock sits still. And observes. "Or perhaps, you'll decide to use the Makaroff. It would, after all, be more fitting. It was my gift to you." His eyes roam over John's body again, now vibrating with barely contained anger. "Yes. The Makaroff would be even more appropriate. Particularly if I am the one to find the body. The final slap in the face, as it were."

Both men look at each other and John's face is mottled with anger. He is on his feet now and moving away from the younger man. Sherlock watches him as he begins to pace their room, short strides that take him away from the bed, then back toward it.

"I – I told you that I appreciate everything you have done. I told you that I need to work through this on my own. I gave you every opportunity to –"

"No, John. You did not." Sherlock yanks the bed clothes back and swings his long bare legs over the side of the bed. He is on his feet and looming over John in two strides. He looks down into the tortured gaze.

"What you told me, _John,_ is that you have become clever at dissembling. Quite clever, in fact." He looks John in the eyes, and ignores the fist that is clenched by John's side, resigned to the fact that said fist will most assuredly impact his jaw in about seven seconds.

"He's dead, John. Unfortunate. He was a good man. A good man in a violent occupation."

John's eyes narrow and Sherlock watches as his Army doctor's chest expands. Pulling in oxygen. Getting ready.

 _Four seconds._ John's stance subtly changes. He leans back, slightly, settles his weight.

Sherlock shakes his curly head and fixes John Watson with a steady gaze. "I know you feel it should be your body lying on that slab. It isn't. You're alive, John. Alive. And Enders died making certain that you would remain so."

 _Three seconds. Two._ The dark eyes narrow. Target acquired.

He delivers the coup d'état. "Are you going to let his death be in vain by persisting in this self-serving desire to -"

John swings.

And encounters Sherlock's open palm. At the same time, the detective has taken one quick step to the side. The impact shudders through the detective's arm and he winces at the strength behind the blow and the instant muscle ache it causes. But he grabs at John's hand and doesn't release it. Not until the soldier yanks it from his grasp and takes a step back.

John's breath comes in heaving gasps and his entire body vibrates with anger.

"You fucking bastard –"

"My dear Doctor –" Sherlock starts.

"Stop calling me that," John rages. His hands grab Sherlock by the upper arms, his sturdy fingers digging into the pale flesh. Neither man wears clothing other than boxers and silk briefs and in any other situation, Sherlock would find this arousing. Instead, his eyes narrow and he goes totally still as his doctor grabs him and literally spins him round to face him.

"I'm not a doctor ! Not anymore. Stop calling me that!" John shakes the other man, mindless of the damage his strong grip does to Sherlock's arms and pale skin. The detective looks down into the dark eyes and his own eyes reflect John's pain back at him.

"John – it's a piece of paper. A bloody piece of paper. That's what they took from you. And that's _all_ they took from you."

He tries to keep his voice steady in order to get through to the smaller man, but John Watson is having none of it. His eyes have gone wild, the pupils nearly blown, his voice seethes with rage, barely controlled.

He holds one hand up in front of Sherlock's face. He begins to fold one finger at a time in to his palm.

"Let's recap, shall we? One," he folds his thumb in and stares into Sherlock's pale eyes. "I have been stripped of my medical license, due to –" He folds down the first finger, "Two, my addiction to a foreign substance which was repeatedly injected into my veins over the course of a week in captivity by that murdering bastard!"

Sherlock's gaze is ice. He looks down into John's eyes and says nothing.

"Three. I was shot, nearly over the same wound I incurred in fucking Afghanistan!"

John's eyes fill and Sherlock wonders if the man is even aware of this fact.

"Four - I fucking died! I died, Sherlock, you said so. On the goddamn M4 and I don't – I can't – I have no memory of this. You say I shot that bastard – Moran. You tell me that Lestrade and I splattered his brains to hell and back –"

John's fingers stop digging into Sherlock's skin and instead he shifts his grasp to hold the long arms with his hands. The pale skin is raw, red. John doesn't even notice.

"How can I not have any stinking memory of this? How?"

It's a cry of agony. And it slices through Sherlock's heart, razor sharp.

John stares into the grey eyes. His voice, wrecked, is utterly desperate.

"Five. I lost _my_ man – he – if I hadn't stopped - to rest - if I had just gone on, just one more fucking minute – sixty seconds … then he'd be – I lost _… I lost …_ "

John breaks down at last and he releases Sherlock's body and doubles in on himself, in pain. He begins to drop, but Sherlock's strong hands grab his shoulders and pull him back to his feet. He gives John a determined shake.

"Stop this! John, look at me. Stop this right now, this minute!"

Sherlock's strong hands hold the doctor upright. He lifts his head and his eyes are red, raw. His gaze pierces the detective's heart.

"John – listen to me. You're a soldier, god damn it. You always have been. And this - this thing that happened – was nobody's fault." John shakes his head and starts to pull away but Sherlock refuses to let him go.

"Look at me, damn it! John!" John looks back up at Sherlock. "Rob Enders made a decision. He made the decision that Captain John Watson was worth saving. A decision I most heartily agree with, by the way. He made a decision in the heat of the moment, in battle, and he acted on that decision. Just the same way you would have, exactly the same way you would have. The way you have done in the past. And will do again. The way you always do."

One of Sherlock's hands grasp the back of the white-gold head in desperation. His long fingers hold the back of John's head in his palm. The two men stare into each other's eyes – the one dark gaze, full of pain, and the one clear, shining, oddly pale.

John looks into Sherlock's eyes – and just shakes his head. "It was me," he says in a hoarse whisper. "I fucked up. It was me."

"No, John. It was a fucking bomb. There was a god damn bomb - they were all over the place. Bloody hell!" Sherlock's voice breaks off and he releases John's arm with his other hand, but does not let go of the back of John's head. His fingers fist into the silken mass of John's hair.

He shakes his head and his curls dance over his forehead. "Bloody hell – John! We should all of us be dead. Every. Single. One. All."

His eyes look into John's, desperate. "John, I should be dead down in that burning lab. Oakton should have died when the slab fell on her. Hansen would have died if you hadn't – hell, John! Half those people, over half of us are alive, breathing, because of Captain John Watson. And that includes Victoria Regina Holmes."

Dead silence. John's breath catches and his hands fist at his side. He hangs his head. Then shakes it. "No." he whispers. "You're wrong, Sherlock." He lifts his head and Sherlock's stomach crawls at the sound of John's voice. His Army doctor – nearly – laughs. Sherlock's eyes widen.

"You're wrong. So wrong. I did what I had to do. That's all. There was nothing—"

"No, John. You don't get to _do_ this. John – look at me. You did what you always do. You saved lives. And whether you do it as Captain John Watson of the RAMC or Doctor John H. Watson, you did what you always do, John. You put everyone else first. And yourself last. Every bloody time."

Sherlock releases John's hair and steps back a half step. He stares into the storm-tossed eyes. "John, it's what you always do. Put others first. And that's what makes you such a good man. Such a dependable man. Steady in combat. Reliable. Strong."

His voice drops as John stares at him. "It's what makes you who you are. And it's what made Rob Enders what he was. A good man. A damn good man. And I owe him. I can't ever repay – John, don't you see?"

He shakes his head and drops his hands to his side. He has no more to give. Not now. If he can't make John see – than all of this has been for naught.

He lifts his hand once more and tugs, ever so slightly, on the back of John's head. If John will allow this, then –

John's face has gone white, paler than Sherlock has ever seen it, save when the man lay in a coma in St. Anne's. There's no reaching him. The small niggling fear once again takes up residence in Sherlock's chest, and he shuts his eyes, momentarily, to shut out the sight of his love's desperate face.

" _I can't do this_ ," he thinks. " _I'm not equipped. Not good enough. Never good enough_. _And how are we both to live with this constant fear?"_

He opens his eyes – only three seconds have passed – four, five - and suddenly John leans into Sherlock's palm, lets the taller man pull him to his chest. The doctor's arms hang by his side.

Sherlock cradles John's head in one hand. John rests his cheek against his love's heart.

"I'm so bloody tired," he whispers. "So damn tired." His warm breath huffs out over the cool skin.

Sherlock nods and shuts his eyes again. "I know, John. I know." He doesn't mention his own sheer exhaustion.

He can feel faint tremors race under John's skin. And he frowns. _Surely, it's not time for another injection? How can this be? So soon? It's only been – what? Two hours, at the most?_

_Not possible._

_Wait._

And as John leans against Sherlock, the detective's mind grapples with the puzzle of John's frequent attacks, running backward to the last one, the one before that, and the one before that. He examines each one he was witness to and matches them up with the circumstances at the time.

And then it hits him.

 _Stupid. Stupid._ They've all – every single last one of them - Merit, Oakton, Dennison, himself, every one of them been so incredibly dense. Why haven't they _seen?_ How could this have been happening for weeks and not one of them have noticed? He exempts John. The man can barely function, let alone realize that -

_Dare he say anything?_

"John –" Sherlock's voice comes as a deep whisper, urgent. "John?"

His soldier pulls back slightly and looks at him. Sherlock yanks his gaze from over John's head and stares down into the dark eyes, shining with unshed tears, so familiar, and so lost.

"John – I think we have a problem."

He begins to speak, hesitantly at first, then with more assurance. The doctor hears him out. John's eyes widen. He can see his Army doctor thinking over the theory he has just expounded.

He waits. It's all he can do at this point.

Then at the last, John nods, too tired to dissemble any longer.

_All right then. Good. Tomorrow._

Sherlock pulls his love's head to him once more and the two men stand wrapped around each other, while the faint tremors race through the small body under his hands.

" _Yes, we have a plan. If we can survive the remainder of this day. And the coming night. Without killing each other first."_

Not for the first time, Sherlock mentally groans at the fact he will have to, once again, ask his brother for help.

He remembers Mycroft's credo – told to him once when his brother was visiting, home from Uni: **Delegate Authority to Others. Remain in control.**

_How could he have forgotten so soon?_

He bends his head toward John's pale hair.

OooOooO

 **Written under the influence of:** The Alan Parsons Project – _Time_ (John and Sherlock together; Sherlock while he watches John sleep); Paul Young _– Come Back and Stay_ (writing John's addiction from Sherlock's POV) - and _Everytime You Go Away_ (John's moods – and what his "absences" do to Sherlock); The Alan Parsons Project – _Eye in the Sky_ (Sherlock as he deduces John's suicide plans and Sherlock – **any time** he deduces John – Sherlock's intense possessiveness of John) and The Alan Parsons Project – _Voyager_ (John's Vision of Book Two: PRINCIPALITIES – as he searches desperately for Sherlock)


	2. Chapter 2

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 2**

**Promises: Language. Drug use. Angst. Love.**

**Oo0oO**

**A cold and broken Hallelujah …**

**221B Baker Street**

**5:30 pm – One hour after Sherlock's epiphany**

The near violent storm has passed. The world has been washed clean and now the softest of English rains remains in its stead. Sherlock opens their bedroom window a few inches and the sweet smell of clean rain, English rain, reaches them in their bed. The air has cooled considerably and he makes certain both of them are covered over for warmth.

Sherlock lies against John's back, his arms around his soldier. His eyes are closed, the better to hear what John does not say. He can just about bet he knows what John  _will_  say.

But his Army doctor has agreed to the experiment, so -

"Tell me," he urges. "Tell me what you remember." He keeps his voice purposefully low.

"And you'll tell me—"

"What you don't," the detective says. He can feel John's heart beat under his fingers. " _Never stop beating,_ " he thinks.  _"If you will do this one thing for me. Just this one. Never. Stop. Beating. Even when mine does. Yours must go on. Do this for me, John. I won't ask anything else of you."_

_But even as he thinks it, he knows he lies. He will ask more of John. Always more. He will go on asking. Demanding even. And John will go on giving – as long as he's able._

Sherlock wonders if that day has finally come. Is it _this_ day? Did his deduction come too late?

And is his theory the correct one? He's near 100% certain. 93%. Seven percent margin of error. Still, does that give him the right to take a chance with this man's mental and emotional health?

"I – I'm not sure," John's voice is small, exhausted. His breath hitches. His right hand holds Sherlock's wrist. He can feel the long fingers twitch under his grasp.

"It might help, John. Please. Just try."

John worries at his lip. His eyes are open and he watches the curtains rustle inward with the faint breeze. The rain continues and he wonders, not for the first time, if it will ever stop. " _But when it does,_  he thinks, " _then this day and night stop too. And we go on – where? Where do we go? Is Sherlock right? Can it be as simple as that?"_

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember what it felt like to be  _normal_. Just two, three days earlier? He was himself, then, right?

He tries to remember what it feels like to be  _John._

He can't.

"John?" The velvet drawl comes warm over the side of his face.

How would _John_  act? What would he say?

He can't remember that either.

 _Truth, then_.

"I remember leaving the - room." His voice is hesitant. "Lori is with me. She – she has just handed me the Browning."

"Good, John." Sherlock breathes the words into the back of John's head. He plants a kiss at the spot where John's hair comes to a small 'v' in the back. Small reward.

"Then?" Sherlock modulates his speaking voice to keep it as low and as deep as possible.

"I – still cannot believe I am allowed – that I can leave the room. Not restrained. "

Sherlock's eyes open and he stares at the back of John's bright head.  _"…cannot believe I am allowed to leave_  … _not restrained…"_

_He was slow in finding John. So damned slow. And he will live with that failure for the rest of his life. He has to fix this. Fix it for both of them._

He nods against John's head to encourage him to go on.

"We make it a few feet, not even two yards, before I – I can't go on. I'm on the floor. Lori sits next to me. She's – just asked me something. Not sure what. She's trying to get me back on my feet. We go a bit longer when – "

"It's okay. I know this bit." Sherlock moves marginally and his chest presses against John Watson's back. John's skin is warm under the simple cotton tee shirt and the bed covers.

"I came down the corridor. You – collapsed. I caught you. Ms. Hansen was by your side."

"All right," John says. "Sherlock, I don't remember that."

"It's all right. That's what happened. You were sitting on the floor. You had just opened your eyes when –"

"Moran," John says. His breathing has sped up, just a bit. And his fingers tighten slightly on Sherlock's wrist. "I remember him saying something – I was dreaming. Drifting. But I can't –"

" _You were dying_ ," Sherlock thinks. " _Just minutes away."_  He shuts his eyes to shut out the memory.

"He said he was going to kill us," Sherlock prompts, his voice a velvet whisper.

John concentrates, a slight frown between his eyes. "I remember … the sound of crying." " _Please tell me that wasn't me,"_  he thinks.

"Ms. Hansen. She was huddled on the floor. Moran had-"

"Tortured her," John said. His breath comes in short inhalations now. He remembers very well what Lori asked of him a few minutes before. He does not tell this to Sherlock.

Sherlock wonders if this is helping or hurting. Maggie Oakton would warn him. He is fairly certain that Galen Dennison would be aghast. He has a plan. A purpose in mind. And it calls for keeping John on edge. But at what cost to John?

"Moran threatens to kill us –"Sherlock prompts. "He threatens me personally…"

"Sherlock, I – I can't," John says.

Silence.

Sherlock's breath is warm against the back of his neck. John shuts his eyes and concentrates on the feel of the detective's chest as it rises and falls against his back.  _But he wants to please Sherlock -_

"Go on then. Tell me what he said," John says, his voice raw. "Tell me."

Sherlock's eyes are still closed. " _Now for it, John._ "

His eidetic memory pulls up the words. " 'Turn around, Holmes I want you fucking  _facing_  me.' "

John's hand grips Sherlock's wrist so tight the detective expects to lose circulation soon.

" 'I said turn around, Sherlock fuckin Holmes! I'm going to shoot you right between those pretty eyes – and then take a long, long time with the other -'"

"Sherlock," John's voice is a warning. Sherlock purposefully ignores it. He can feel that John's heart rate has sped up. He feels it through the palm of his hand.

_Good._

" 'And I'm not even going to tell you what's going to happen to your- ' "

"Sherlock – stop!" John pulls away and struggles to a sitting position. He reaches out and clicks on the small lamp. Then turns to face the other man.

"I can't. I told you – I have no memory. No fucking memory at all."

Sherlock says nothing. His grey eyes study John's form in the soft yellow light of the bedside lamp.

"It's okay, John," he says, deliberate, disappointment evident. "I should not have asked it of you."

"No! No, it's _not_  okay!"

Without preamble, John tosses off the bedclothes and begins to pace their room, bare legged and barefoot, his movements agitated. "It's not okay," he repeats, clearly upset. "Damn it, this isn't helping. It's just making me feel like a bloody fool."

"John, I told you. It's all right." Sherlock moves quickly out of bed and stands next to John. "It was worth a shot."

He lifts a hand to pull John to him, but his soldier just shakes his head.

"Sorry. Need some air." He leaves their room.

Sherlock curses himself for a fool, stares around their semi-dark room. He bends over to retrieve one of the plates of half-eaten food when he hears it, the smallest of sounds from the next room. Small, but audible.

The sound of a clip being ejected – or rammed home.

Oo0oO

A universe of thought coalesces in a second of time as he turns and runs, near stumbling, to their living area. The seconds play out as a scenario in his head. One second, clear the bedroom. Two, down the short hall and into the living area.  _Sofa or Chair? Sofa._  Three – over the top of the coffee table and tackle John to the –

_Because of course John will be sitting on the edge of the sofa. He always sits there when he cleans his guns, spreads the weapon and supplies out over newsprint, takes up the rag and gun oil - But he hid the guns, and the clips earlier, while John slept._

He shakes his shaggy head as he charges toward John.

 _Of course. Stupid. Stupid._  John had two full days of working with Mycroft's men. Ample time to find or be given a third weapon. He left John alone for near the entire day they got back. And never once thought of searching him or his duffle for a third gun.

And then he's there and realises all thoughts of tackling John to the floor are ridiculous in the extreme. In the ensuing struggle, one of them will most probably take a bullet.  _As long as it isn't John -_

He's not sitting on the sofa.

John sits on the very edge of his chair, Jake Lynn's abandoned Sig Sauer in his left hand. The ejected clip lies on his open right palm. John's head is bent as he considers the weapon in his hand.

"John."

Sherlock stands over John, a scant two feet away, his breath comes in deep inhalations. His fingers clench and unclench by his side.

"John."

John's body jerks slightly at the sound of Sherlock's voice. He turns the smooth clip over in his fingers. It glints in the light. His left thumb rubs back and forth on the black grip. He does not look up at Sherlock.

Sherlock can see that John's breath comes more steadily now. His right hand fingers the clip, his thumb and forefinger slide up and down the cool metal. His left hand has never been steadier.

Sherlock reaches out slightly, as if to take the clip from John's hand. Pauses. John's shoulders straighten. He shakes his blonde head slightly.

"I told you, I have No. Bloody. Memory. Of any of that," he says in a hoarse tone. "If I could remember," he says. "I  _need_  to remember."

He lifts his head and stares upward at Sherlock. John's eyes are wide, rimmed in red, the pupils huge, dark in the early evening light.

"Moran," he says in the same wrecked tone. "He's been messing with my head this entire time. The one thing I did that I most need to – don't you see, Sherlock? It's him. This entire damned time."

And all the while he talks, Sherlock watches John's calloused fingers as they finger the clip.

" _Ten bullets"_  thinks Sherlock. " _9mm. It's a Sig, so no external safety."_ His brother's men all favor the Sig. As does Lestrade.

"John – he's dead. The man's dead. Buried." He keeps his tone quiet, level. But the rapid pounding in his chest threatens to choke him.

"John, you know what's really going on here. Tomorrow, we'll get it all sorted and —"

John shakes his head. "It's no good, Sherlock." He lowers his gaze to the gun in his hand. "No good," he whispers. "Another night of this?" His fingers move, sudden, sure. And Sherlock watches as the clip is slipped into the Sig.

Where is his bloody brother, his men? He knows the bugs are in place. He knows this, even though he and Mycroft haven't discussed it. He needs help. He cannot fight this man, this trained soldier alone.

Sherlock reaches out one hesitant hand. "John – please. Give me –"

John flinches; it's the barest of movements. But the detective sees. Something cold, slippery and wet wiggles its way through Sherlock's guts.

This is the man who killed for him within hours of their first meeting. And then coolly went to dinner. The man who faced down Moriarty and basically told him to go fuck himself, while covered in enough explosives to bring down a municipal building.

This is the man who rescued Regina Holmes and calmly, deliberately beat the shite out of the men who did it. The same man who saved their lives in the mansion. The man who, as far as Sherlock knows, has never backed down from any situation or individual in his life.

But he just saw him recoil from Sherlock Holmes.

He looks at the bent head, so bright in the sunlight a few days before and now muted in the gloom of early evening.

John deliberately tilts the Sig, then smoothly slides the clip home. The resounding click echoes through the room.

Sherlock watches as John's chest expands, pulls in oxygen. John's right hand clenches in on itself. The nails dig into his palm, then release.

Less than two feet away from John, he pauses, fearful of moving closer. He stops moving – and, utterly desperate, tosses the casual request out, drawled in a deliberately bored tone, in his maddeningly deep voice. The tone of voice that always, always gets through to John.

It's all he has left.

The chance he's taking … the horrid chance.

Something has to break.

It's his last card. His trump. Long thought of but held in reserve.

And he despises himself even as he plays it.

"Do me one favor, John?"

The tortured man lifts his head. Sherlock looks at John Watson, his hand still outstretched toward his doctor.

"Be a good man and check that clip. Make certain there are at least two bullets in there."

He drops his hand and his fingers twitch by his side. John stares at the line of bandaging around the narrow wrists. He looks up.

Sherlock smiles grimly down into the dark eyes.

"So tedious to have to reload."

John's face drains of all color. His eyes, darker than Sherlock has ever seen them, bore a hole into the detective's brain. Sherlock sees the pent up energy in the wiry form perched on the chair edge in front of him. John's entire body vibrates with tension. His head lifts. His eyes narrow.

_Something's got to break …_

Sherlock holds his breath - and in one sudden blur of motion, beautiful in its contained fury – John Watson rises into a shooter's stance, pivots, aims – and fires.

At the wall.

His grip is firm, his upper arms and shoulders beautifully steady through the recoil, as he empties the ten-shot clip into the hideous patterned wallpaper, more or less directly over the shots that Sherlock put there one year earlier.

Sherlock's head whips round and his eyes widen at the tight pattern of shots. If the yellow smiley face were still there, it would be a pattern of bulls eyes, planted right between the eyes, each one fired close to dead center, each nearly over the other. The sound of the shots reverberate through the quiet flat. An acrid smell fills the room.

Clip empty, shots ringing in his ears, John Watson slowly straightens, the Sig now held firmly in his right hand. He drops his left to his side. And turns his head to regard Sherlock as he stands there, barely breathing.

The two men stare at each other. John opens his mouth, but before he can speak -

"What in bloody hell are you on about, young man!"

Sherlock turns to see Mrs. Hudson as she stands in their doorway, her hands full of shopping bags.

Behind them, a significant chunk of fresh plaster and wallpaper, blasted to bits, splinters away and falls to the floor.

Oo0oO

"Mycroft."

He sighs, gently so she cannot hear it, and rubs a hand over his face. It's already been a long day. He glances at his watch. It's about to get longer.

"Yes, Mummy."

"Son. I have come to the decision that the annual Gala must necessarily be canceled outright, rather than postponed, given the events of this week."

"Of course, Mummy."

"Now undoubtedly, son, you have come to the same conclusion. In which case, it behooves us both to provide the necessary charities with the expected contributions from this year's Gala, as their budgets will already be in place."

"Naturally, Mummy."

Mycroft, in full concurrence, ignores his notebook pc and its open calendar, instead picks up his pen and makes a note on actual paper. Mycroft's remarkable memory dictates he never has to take notes. He does so because he enjoys it. He enjoys seeing the items neatly written out then ticked off, one by one. In this, he shares something with Anthea.

_And speaking of sharing things with Anthea, he needs to personally check on Jake Lynn's progress. The man is slated to begin physical therapy rehabilitation shortly and he wants to be certain that Lynn's doctors and surgeons are all in agreement concerning his treatment. And probable recovery. He needs to know when one of his best agents is going to be back on the job._

"Son? Do I have your full attention?"

"At all times, Mummy. And I have already instructed that checks go out to each charity in question with an appropriate amount filled in, plus 15% over last year's contribution."

"Humph.  _Yes, Jenkins, of course, but in a moment. I am speaking with my eldest son."_

"Son?"

"Still here, Mummy."

Mycroft carefully tilts his head to one side, then to the other in a bid to loosen his neck muscles. He arches his spine, finally stands outright and tenses, then relaxes each leg. He has been sitting too long this day. Perhaps he should take up jogging. Rejects the notion the second he thinks it.  _Perhaps swimming? No, Sherlock swims and he's quite good at it. He's bound to make some sort of insufferable comment. Resume Fencing? He was, after all, rather competent. Best not to have a sharp object in his hands around his younger brother. Bloody hell, does everything revolve around Sherlock?_

"Son. I really called you to talk about Sherlock and Captain Watson."

_Apparently._

Anthea comes in, smiles gently, sets his favorite single malt in front of him, in his favorite cut crystal glass, nods once in sympathy, and goes out again. He looks at the closed door longingly. Just this once. Just this one evening, he meant for both of them to actually leave before midnight.

"All right, Mummy. What about Sherlock and John?"

"Well, naturally, son, we have myriad details to go over."

He lifts the glass, swirls the amber liquid once and takes a sip.

"We?"

"Yes, son, do pay attention. Who else would I speak with concerning the wedding arrangements? Jenkins?"

"Well, Mother, you might do the obvious."

He can hear her sniff over the phone. "And that would be -?"

He sits back down and leans back in his chair. The leather creaks. Damn, his back is beginning to hurt. Again.

"You might try having this discussion , or any discussion involving their wedding, with the actual participants themselves."

Dead silence.

"Son. While I have nothing but the utmost respect for Captain Watson - he is, after all, the reason you and I are even having this discussion in the first place - I highly doubt if he is up to the task of planning or assisting in the plans of his pending nuptials to my youngest son."

Mycroft takes a second sip and shuts his eyes. He cradles the glass between both hands and contemplates the inside of his eyelids. Finding no inspiration there, he opens his eyes and looks at the beautifully matted and framed portrait of the Queen that graces the wall opposite his desk.

His monarch has nothing to offer either, so he sits up and enters the fray.

"Mummy? Mother."

"Yes, Mycroft. I am still waiting for any input you care to give on the subject."

"For what I hope is the last time,  _John._  His name is John. And your youngest son is—"

"Sherlock. Don't be tedious son. My point is neither of them is equipped."

He leans forward and rests his chin on one hand. Contemplates the portrait of a very young Elizabeth.  _Quite handsome, as young women go. Went. Whatever._

A thought occurs. He must be getting slow. Why didn't he think of this earlier?

"Mother, I am not certain how much, er, actual assistance I can give. I am, after all, in charge of the security for the Queen's –"

"Mycroft. Don't you dare lie to me. I know very well that you delegated authority for the security arrangements to others. You will, of course, keep a tight rein on Lilibet's comings and goings so that her Diamond Jubilee can go off without a hitch but please do not insult my intelligence and suggest that you are personally overseeing the—"

He stands to attention, lifts his glass in a salute to his Queen, then drains it in one gulp. Sets the glass down, sits, and folds both hands under his chin.

He stares at his monarch. His monarch stares back. He sees relatively little sympathy in her gaze. But then, she's British, as is he, and he expects to see little sympathy in anyone's gaze.  _Just get on with it then, Mycroft._  He transfers his gaze to the empty glass. And wonders if Anthea's telepathic abilities still work when both of them are totally exhausted.

As if on cue, Anthea comes in with the beautiful square bottle, pours exactly two fingers of single malt, hesitates, glances at his face, pours another finger. She hands him the glass and goes back out again, closing the door quietly behind her, leaving a soft cloud of jasmine that wafts in the air behind her.

He raises one eyebrow.  _She's changed her scent? Aw, yes. Jake Lynn's influence, of course._

He takes a sip and rallies. Doubtless, Anthea's intention.

"Mother? Mummy? May I remind you that any and all arrangements for her Majesty's security remain not only of the most utmost secrecy but that—"

"Shut it, Mycroft. Just please open your emails from me, reply with your best suggestions on how next to proceed with the wedding arrangements and send them to me. I expect them in my IN box by the morning. And son?"

He shuts his eyes and wonders if his retirement plans are still in place. His predecessor once told him that "retirement" usually meant taking a bullet in the brain from some disgruntled, highly-trained underling, but thank God the rather barbaric days of the so-called Cold War are behind them all and he can actually see into a future that doesn't include being in charge of most of this hemisphere.

One day. Eventually. He hopes.

But not this day.

Out loud, all Mycroft says is, "Of course, Mummy. And might I suggest we start off by asking John and Sherlock what day they would prefer—"

"John and Sherlock? Son? You said "John and Sherlock." It should be Sherlock and John."

Heavy sigh. He pinches his nose again.

"All right, Mummy. Do you care to tell me what possible difference it can make?"

"Don't be obtuse, Mycroft. It doesn't suit you. Sherlock is a Viscount. John is – John. A former Captain in the RAMC. And a doctor. Of course, once the – "

"I do not believe that Sherlock has ever divulged that particular fact to John, Mother."

Shocked silence.

"Mycroft, you jest."

_He takes another sip and shakes his head at a very young Elizabeth. Really, a damn fine-looking woman. He's proud of her. Proud that this beautiful, intelligent, poised, so very-British individual has ruled as their monarch for these many –_

"No, Mummy, I do not believe Sherlock has ever broached that subject with John."

More silence.

"Well, this is simply not  _tenable_. He must have this talk with –  _John_ – and quite soon. The man must know what to expect once the nuptials occur."

Tired, Mycroft sits back and glances at his watch. Perhaps he and Anthea might get out by 7:00 pm. It is just possible.

"And when would that be, Mummy?"

"How the hell would I know, Son? You haven't replied to my emails yet _. Oh for heaven's sake, Jenkins, yes. I will be there in a moment."_

"Mycroft? Son?"

"Still here, Mummy."

"I expect your input by the morning. Early morning. And I forbid you to ask or even broach the subject of the actual calendar date with either of the – er, with Sherlock or John. Are we in concurrence here?"'

"No, Mummy. I believe that _John_ and Sherlock should not only be in the complete  _know_  as regards these arrangements but that the actual day for their union should be left entirely up to them. So I would suggest, Mummy, that we are not in concurrence on this subject."

"Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mother?"

"Have you been at the single malt again?"

He picks up his glass, drains it and sets it in the exact middle of his desk.

"By no means, Mummy. But it has been an extremely long day."

"Humph. Very well. Get some rest. Reply to my questions. We will talk in the morning _. Oh, for heaven's sakes, Jenkins!"_

Mummy rings off. Rather she hangs up. But in Mycroft's mind, he and Sherlock's mother exists in a world where she will - forever –  _ring off_  once their phone conversations are over.

He places his mobile to the exact left of his whiskey glass and puts his head in his hands.

Oo0oO

After insisting they "Get some bloody clothes on, both of you, and then kindly explain to me why either one or the other of you insist on shooting up my bloody walls! And what is that horrid smell!" Mrs. Hudson puts away the food she brought and marches down the steps, still fuming.

Both men ignore her. John stares into Sherlock's grey eyes. He ejects the clip, hands both clip and pistol to Sherlock, who takes it and drops both on the small table next to John's chair.

John glances down at the casings on the floor. He leaves them and goes to their room without a backward glance. Sherlock stares after him.

He takes a deep breath and eyes narrowed, follows John to their room. And slams the door behind them.

A minute later, at the door of her own flat, Martha Hudson glances up the seventeen steps at the sound of raised voices. She shakes her head and goes into her flat, still muttering about "bloody imbeciles and what do I tell the police, they're bound to show, and the married ones are certain to have heard the shots!"

Oo0oO

Lori picks up her phone but before she can say a word, Sherlock's voice demands, "Ms. Hansen, Sherlock Holmes. What was in the shot?"

Lori hesitates for the barest of moments. She quickly gets her thoughts in order. Lori thinks she knows, by now, how Sherlock's mind works and he will not want to waste any time - " _Amend that,"_  she thinks. There isn't a human being on the planet who knows how Sherlock's mind works, save perhaps his brother and she's not too certain about Mycroft. This is about Doctor Watson then.  _The only two shots she has been involved with – wait. Does he mean?_

"Sherlock, do you mean the shot I gave John in the mansion or the one that the paramedics –"

"Medic. John was unresponsive, not breathing."

" _He can't say it_ ," she thinks.  _"He cannot bring himself to say that John was dead."_

"Ms. Hansen, you and I gave him CPR. You spoke to the medic and he brought out a hypo and injected it directly into John's heart. The injection undoubtedly helped revive him, in addition to the renewed CPR efforts. What was in the shot?"

A moment's beat. Sherlock holds his breath.

"Adrenaline," she says. "Is it important?"'

"Extremely. And thank you. We may need you later this evening, if Officer Rodriguez can spare you." He hangs up without further explanation.

Lori stares at the phone in her hand. Joe comes up behind her.

"Anything the matter, sweetheart?"

She turns to see her man as he stands there, a tiny ball of orange fluff cradled in one large hand. The kitten's soft head peeks up from Joe's strong fingers. Enormous blue eyes blink sleepily at Lori. Her heart turns over. She drops the mobile on the table and smiles.

"No, Joe. Nothing's the matter."

She glances at the phone, decides that Sherlock can call her back when he needs her. "At least, I hope there isn't."

She reaches out to tickle the kitten's head, then leans up for a kiss.

He grins into her lips. "Well, go on then. What are we naming this tiny dynamo?"

Oo0oO

Dr. William Merit raises one eyebrow at the lateness of the phone call but answers immediately.

"Dr. Merit, Sherlock Holmes. When John Watson lay in a coma-like state for six days in St. Anne's –"

"Is John all right?" William Merit interrupts.

"That depends," Sherlock says quietly, "upon your meaning of 'all right.'"

Silence.

"Dr. Merit, when John was asleep those initial six days, I observed signs of what you later termed the 'addiction response' while he slept. I assume you, also, saw these signs. Obvious signs of pain, arched back, sweat, clenched hands, rapid eye movement, denoting he was experiencing dreams – undoubtedly nightmares."

"Yes. I did observe all that, Mr. Holmes. Why?"

"What did you give John when you made these observations? I know he was on medication."

"The same basic formula he was on when he awoke. A combination of –"

"Adrenaline?" the detective interrupts.

Silence. "Certainly not, Mr. Holmes. May I ask where this is going?"

Sherlock considers for a moment. He ruffles his unkempt hair with one hand, then shakes his head.

"Dr. Merit, at any time that John was in St. Anne's and under your care, did he receive any type of medication, via injection, pills, anything, that contained adrenaline in any form? And please be exact. Your answer is extremely important."

"Wait a minute. Let me – No. The answer is No. I cannot, of course, vouch for what was in the hypo he was injected with by your brother's man."

"That is all I needed to know at present. Thank you, Doctor."

"Mr. Holmes, I –"

Sherlock hangs up. And stares at the gaping hole in the black and white wallpaper.

What did Merit just say?  _"…the hypo he was injected with…" ?_

Behind him, he hears John come into the room.

"Sherlock?"

At the too quiet voice, Sherlock turns to look at the doctor. John stands in the doorway, dressed in jeans and a tee shirt, still barefoot. His body language, his lined face, his entire demeanor screams exhaustion.

"Who was that?"

Sherlock considers. He nods. "Merit. John, you're right. We're not letting this go another night. Not another hour. You'll require an injection in a few hours and I'm not going to let you –"

"We're going through with it, then?" John straightens up and for the first time, Sherlock hears hope in the ragged voice.

Both men have forgotten their angry words, hurled at each other a few moments before.

"Yes, John. We're going through with it. Tonight." He regards his doctor grimly. "We're going to need some supplies and some assistance."

John nods. Crosses to the table next to his chair and picks up his mobile. "Who do I call first?" he says.

Oo0oO

"Good evening, John. To what do I owe this pleasure?"

"Evening, Mycroft. Is – er, Anthea available? Not sure this is something you want to be bothered with."

Silence.

"No, John, it's a little late. I was about to send her home. Can I be of assistance?"

John runs one hand through his hair. "Mycroft, this is going to sound a bit strange."

Behind him, Sherlock reaches, grabs the mobile out of John's hands.

"Oh for god's sakes, John, just ask the man."

He holds the phone to his ear, while John watches, bemused.

"Mycroft, we need a bed."

"A bed."

"Yes, Mycroft. A bed. Single will do, mattress, sheets, pillow and cases, duvet, damn it, whatever a female guest would need to feel comfortable. And we need it now."

His brother's voice is maddening in its exacting drawl. "Branching out?"

"Oh, for god's sakes, Mycroft. Ms. Hansen is going to help John, help us, here, tonight. We need a nurse and she's already familiar with John's – problem. It might take most of the night. IN fact, I expect it to. The woman will, undoubtedly, require rest at some point and I don't expect her to kip on the bloody sofa. We need a bed. Delivered. Here. Tonight. And installed in John's old room. Clear enough for you?"

John shakes his head and goes into the kitchen. Sherlock watches him fill the kettle. Open the cabinet to find mugs for tea. Open the fridge for milk _. How very British. When all else fails,_   _put the kettle on._ John's familiar movements help calm some of the turmoil in Sherlock's mind.

Mycroft Holmes pushes away the files in front of him, pinches his nose, and sighs.

"Yes, brother mine. I believe that is quite clear."

"Good. Then I'll leave you to –"

"I assume, then, that the information you requested of me yesterday is of no further importance?"

Sherlock deliberately turns his back to John and lowers his voice.

"Of course, it's of importance. Read me the reports. And quickly, before John comes back into the room."

Mycroft pulls a slim file toward him, glances at his watch. He pulls two sheets of paper from the file, glances over them to refamiliarize himself with their contents. He frowns.

"Sherlock, I'm not certain this is information you'll want to hear."

"Get on with it."

"Nice. Nice manners, Sherlock. All right. Victim number –"

"For bloody sakes, Mycroft! I don't need them catalogued. Just tell me. I assume they are both deceased. The last of Moriarty's drug test subjects."

Mycroft sighs. "Yes, Sherlock, unfortunately, that is the case. Both deceased. Both disinterred at our request. It took some time for those requests to be –"

"I'm going to strangle you in a moment. Just tell me—"

"Neither one of them succumbed, directly, to Marcus Frank's drug."

There is a small silence while Sherlock's mind whirls.

"All right. What did they –"

"You might say they died of lead poisoning. Six ounces of lead, each, to be exact."

"Mycroft –" Sherlock's tone is quietly murderous.

"Oh, for heavens sakes. They committed suicide. Both subjects. One was a former police officer and had resource to his service pistol. The other was a veteran of the Iraqi campaign and –"

"I don't care how they got hold of the bloody guns, Mycroft. So both victims killed themselves?"

"I believe that is what I just said, Sherlock. Of course, the families did their best to hush that fact up. It was put out that each victim died of heart failure. Which, if you look at it—"

"Medication?"

Sherlock turns back to regard John at the kitchen sink as he busies himself with tea bag, spoon, milk.

"Your surmise was entirely correct, brother mine. Both test subjects were on the same general medication that John has been on, or at least, a very similar formulary. Both lived alone and neither had any family members on hand to recognize the symptoms of impending —"

"Mycroft, that is all I needed to know. You've been – helpful. Just get the bed here? Can you do that for us?"

Mycroft pauses. "Yes, I believe so. Do you require any assistance with this project?

Sherlock looks straight at John Watson as the doctor comes back into their sitting room, carrying two mugs of tea.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Can you have an ambulance standing by, with trained personnel, just in case?"

"An ambulance. You want me to have a fully-stocked ambulance and paramedics parked outside Baker Street throughout this coming night?"

Sherlock accepts a mug of tea from John, sets it on the table next to him. He makes no effort to lower his voice or hide this part of the conversation from John.

John sets his tea on his side table, grabs a cushion to put behind his back, then collapses into his chair. He regards Sherlock over the steaming cuppa, raises one sandy eyebrow.

"Mycroft, I don't care if the ambulance is disguised as the local sandwich wagon, just have it here. Just in case." He turns to glance at the fading light that comes from their window.

Turns back to John. "Please."

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. "All right, Sherlock. If that is what John needs, we'll have it there. And Sherlock?"

"Yes, Mycroft?"

"Do you require that someone pick up Ms. Hansen and—"

"I – that would be nice, yes. It would keep Officer Rodriguez from having to drive her here and pick her up in the morning."

Mycroft nods as Anthea comes in, sits in the chair opposite him. "All right. I'll have someone deliver her shortly. Please ask her to be ready."

"Mycroft? She needs to meet us at Bart's. I need to speak with Galen Dennison and it's not a conversation I care to have over the phone."

He hears his brother sigh. "All right, Sherlock. At what time will you both be there? And may I remind you that visiting hours –"

"I don't give a hang about visiting hours, Mycroft. This happens tonight. Now. Just have her there. Please."

"Very well."

Mycroft hangs up without waiting for Sherlock to reply, sets the mobile on his desk. He sits back and regards Anthea.

"My dear, my brother – and John – have a few rather late requests. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to stay a tad longer."

She smiles. "Of course. What do they need?"

Oo0oO

Maggie Oakton glances at her mobile, raises one eyebrow. Beside her, Galen Dennison lies back in his hospital bed, apparently asleep.

She answers as quietly as possible. "Sherlock?"

"Doctor Oakton, I know it's getting late but John and I – and Ms. Hansen – need to see both of you. It's rather important. Urgent. It concerns John. Is Doctor Dennison up to meeting with us?"

"Meet you tonight, here? Sherlock, I'm not certain. He's rather tired."

She glances at Galen's face. He opens his eyes, turns to look at his lady love, and grins. "Whatever they need. I'm not going anywhere."

Maggie smiles back at him. "Galen says, of course. But you must know that visiting hours –"

"They won't keep us away. John's a doctor." And Sherlock hangs up.

Maggie drops her mobile back into her purse and turns to pick up a glass with a straw in it. She holds it for Galen. "You don't have to do this, you know," she says quietly.

"Maggie, I'm fine. I want to help. Particularly if it will help John."

She nods. "I figured as much. Me, too."

**OooOooO**

**St. Bart's Hospital - Galen Dennisons' room**

"We only have a short while. We must get back to Baker Street before it's time for John's next injection. I need your professional input and suggestions, from both of you. If you will both just hold any questions you might have, I'd appreciate it."

Maggie sits in her chair by Galen's hospital bed. The sick man is propped up on pillows and regards Sherlock with a serious look on his face. Lori Hansen sits in a chair on the other side of the bed. John watches. He's tired beyond reason and wants Sherlock to get on with it.

Sherlock paces back and forth in the space between Galen's bed and the far wall. As he talks, he begins to wave his hands in the air.

"We need to keep in mind three things – two of them vitally important."

"One: John is a trained doctor and battle surgeon. He served in Afghanistan and although he once described that service as being days of boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror, in his capacity as medic and surgeon, he was in constant demand. John Watson very seldom experienced those days of sheer boredom."

Sherlock glances at all of them, but in particular at John. "What this means is that John Watson is addicted to the so-called  _adrenaline rush_. His choice of occupations confirms this. It was only when John was wounded in action and sent home, that his life temporarily became more - normal – placid, if you will. It was not a life that John would have chosen or indeed, did choose for himself, but rather one that he had thrust upon him due to circumstance."

Sherlock glances around at the other three occupants of the hospital room.

"Two: the not uncommon practice of pharmaceutical houses to distribute samples of their products to doctors, hospitals, clinics. And three - and this fact is vitally important - Marcus Frank's drug never worked, not the way that bastard intended it to."

John leans against the window ledge, arms crossed over chest, his wide eyes follow Sherlock as he paces. The detective's arms and hands move so fast, John expects them to leave actual physical tracings in the air. He watches Sherlock in his natural element.

Under any other circumstances, John would be fascinated by the man's deductive reasoning. This evening, he is just plain exhausted. And apprehensive.

"John was on the right track all along." Sherlock pauses shortly to consider his Army doctor, who looks back at him. "But none of us listened to the man."

"It began back in St. Anne's. Dr. Merit said something in conversation to Mycroft and me that was telling. But I wasn't paying attention at the time."

John raises one eyebrow, but does not comment.

Sherlock continues. "Merit said that John had no traces of Frank's drug in his system."

Sherlock pauses and looks around the room at all of them. "Remember that. Just a day after John finally awoke, approximately seven days after his last injection in the Wellington, all traces of Frank's drug had disappeared from John's system."

He looks directly at John.

"But the 'addiction' remained. We all know how addictive substances work. Basically, they alter the neural pathways in the brain. John's doctors, all of us, assumed that the pathways had been altered. We based this assumption on John's frequent attacks brought on by the substance that was repeatedly injected into his veins that week in the Wellington, although no actual trace of that substance remained."

Sherlock glances at Galen Dennison and Margaret Oakton. "Nevertheless, anticipating current and future problems with what was assumed to be a very addictive substance, along the lines of cocaine, John was given counteragents in the form of frequent injections. At first, while he was unconscious and later, when he was awake."

Sherlock stops by the bed and looks down at Galen.

"Doctor Dennison, Doctor Merit is not here to respond to this, so I have to ask you this question, keeping in mind that at this point, we are discussing the injections that Merit had ordered for John. Not your formulary. Merit's."

Galen nods. "I follow you, Sherlock. What's the question?"

Sherlock looks at him grimly. "Galen, in your considered response, what would the result be if an individual was repeatedly injected with a strong counteragent that he did not need or require?"

Dead silence.

Galen raises one eyebrow, looks from Sherlock to John to Maggie. He speaks slowly, feeling his way. "I'm not exactly certain what you're going for, Sherlock. It must have been obvious to Doctor Merit that John was experiencing symptoms that would lead any trained doctor to believe –"

Sherlock nods. "Yes, Galen, you are correct. We all saw the symptoms. And once John awoke, they were violent to the extreme. At first. One day after awakening, John threatened to kill himself."

Sherlock looks straight at John Watson. "That was not an actual suicide attempt. That was a cry for help. John was begging us to help him."

Sherlock resumes pacing, swivels and looks at Dennison. "And what occurred immediately afterward? John was injected with a tranquilizer. Not his normal injection, not the medication Merit put him on. But a tranquilizer, which did its job. It knocked him out for several hours. Gave his brain time to relax. To rest. Stopped the pain. Later that evening, after John awoke, I had ample evidence that he was beginning to feel better. Stronger, more alert. More himself."

Sherlock does not go into detail about his evening with John. But Maggie Oakton's eyes widen and Lori ducks her head and smiles. Galen just looks at him, clueless.

"The next morning, of course, Mycroft's rogue agent injected John while he was sleeping with Frank's drug. The substance was once again introduced into John's bloodstream. And again, John began to exhibit rather marked reactions."

Sherlock stops pacing, stands in the middle of the hospital room and frowns at the floor, as he thinks out loud.

"At this time, Doctor Merit asked you, Doctor Oakton, to take John's case. At the same time, a manufacturer's sample of hypodermic needles was delivered to St. Anne's, to the attention of one Doctor Margaret Oakton, and was set aside for you, Doctor Oakton."

He walks up to Maggie and looks down at her.

"It is a common practice. You were visiting Doctor Merit. You were known to the staff and your only patient was Doctor John Watson. Accordingly, the box of hypodermics was set aside with your name on it. When Merit prescribed John's initial medication, what was more natural than that those particular hypodermics be used?"

Sherlock shakes his head and glances at both doctors and then at Lori Hansen. "Almost from the moment he awoke in St. Anne's, John was being repeatedly re-injected with trace amounts of Marcus Frank's drug. His system never had a chance to expel it."

"When we couple that with the one more concentrated injection John was given by Mycroft's agent, it is a wonder John's heart didn't stop beating permanently." The detective shudders slightly, glances at his audience, and resumes pacing.

"When we left St. Anne's for the mansion that night, Doctor Oakton handed me a small case with several prepared hypos, just in case John had an attack before we reached our destination. Which he did. A rather violent one, I might add." Sherlock glances at John. "And what occurred? I gave John one of those shots – again reintroducing the same damn drug into his already overtaxed system, along with trace amounts of psilocybin."

John's eyes widen and he shifts his stance, but says nothing. Sherlock nods. "John later told me he remembered experiencing aural hallucinations in the van that night, before he passed out."

Sherlock walks back and forth between Galen Dennison's hospital bed and the far wall, turns, and retraces his steps, again and again.

"When John awoke in the mansion, that first morning, I noted he was exceptionally tired, which was to be expected, and exceedingly quiet. He also seemed depressed, again, not an uncommon reaction to the situation. At least, this is what I told myself at the time."

He looks at all of them. "But I say now that neither exceptional tiredness, extreme quiet or depression are ever terms I would use to describe John Watson."

"Galen, when you joined us at the mansion later that same day, you immediately changed John's medication. John seemed to feel better almost immediately. He was more vocal, more belligerent in his nature, more in command, more himself. Everyone noted it, myself in particular, as well as Agent Lynn. This marked change in John's behavior lasted through the next day, until Margaret injected John during an attack, unknowingly using one of the tainted needles."

He stares at Maggie Oakton. "My apologies for what transpired after that, Doctor Oakton. You were not to know. None of us were."

Maggie's eyes widen. It is as close to an apology she is likely to receive. She nods at Sherlock.

"Galen, what was in the shot you gave John, and in the shots he continues to receive?"

Galen stirs. "Sherlock, you want the formula? What are you going for here?"

Sherlock stands in front of Galen and crosses his arms. "Not specifically, no. But am I correct in assuming that it contains neurotransmitters, in particular, dopamine, oxytocin and adrenaline, as mood enhancers?"

Once again, Galen is reminded that Sherlock is a chemist. He nods. "Yes, that's correct."

Sherlock nods, more to himself than to Galen. "And that day that John experienced difficulty breathing, the day he had the rather violent reaction to the shot Margaret gave him, you injected John with what I believe is called an EpiPen "epi" being short for epinephrine?"

Galen nods. "Right again."

"And epinephrine is just another name for –"

"Adrenaline," says Lori Hansen quietly.

Sherlock smiles at the tiny nurse fondly. "Exactly."

He looks at John searchingly. "Throughout this entire time, two things have been going on with John." He looks around the room. "We all assumed John was showing evidence of an addiction to Frank's drug, an addiction that necessarily had to be treated with a counter agent. You said it yourself, Galen, as did William Merit. You were slowly substituting one addiction for another, one more easily controlled."

Galen frowns. "Sherlock, I think I see what you're getting at but –"

Sherlock looks at him expectantly. "Galen, I repeat the question: what would you expect to have happen to an individual who was repeatedly injected with rather strong doses of counter agents he did not, in fact, require?"

Galen considers for a moment. He speaks slowly, feeling his way. "Well. I would expect the subject," he glances at John, "to react with rather marked confusion, a certain amount of drowsiness, increasing as it goes along, anxiety, fatigue, a certain amount of paranoia…." His voice trails off as he considers his words. And their implications.

Sherlock nods. "And if the doses were repeated, over several days, twice daily, for nearly four weeks, one of them while the subject was unconscious, and if that individual was a normally well-adjusted person, an individual used to an extremely active lifestyle, used to 'taking charge,' someone addicted to the adrenaline rush?" Sherlock looks straight at John while he is talking. John looks back at him, his dark blue eyes narrowed.

Sherlock continues speaking, all the while regarding his soldier, "And if he were forced more or less into inaction because of that increased exhaustion, doubting his own senses, questioning his lack of control. What then?"

"Good heavens," says Maggie. Her hands tighten on Galen Dennison's arm.

She stares at Sherlock, then slowly turns to regard John as he leans against the window sill. John continues to stare at Sherlock, his arms still crossed over his chest, but everyone can see his hands tighten.

Dennison looks grim. "All of the above, to the power of ten, and you can add mood swings, including greatly increased paranoia, intense fatigue, itching – it's called paresthesia – and yes, marked depression."

Sherlock nods. "Exactly." He goes back to pacing.

Sherlock comes to a standstill a few feet from John. He looks into his doctor's blue eyes.

"It is my opinion that adrenaline serves to "chase" Franks' drug out of the bloodstream. Whenever adrenaline has been introduced into John's system, either naturally, by the activation of the "fight or flight" response, or by medication, more and more of Frank's drug is eradicated from John's system. His reactions to that substance become milder and of shorter duration."

Sherlock looks at John grimly. "The worst day John spent in the mansion was not the day the bombs began to explode." Sherlock looks around. "It was the day I left for Switzerland – and left him behind with no explanation, no goodbye." He regards John again. "John spent that entire day trying to convince the agents in the mansion to either let him follow me to Switzerland or to get my brother to tell him exactly where I had gone and what I was doing."

"John's system was bombarded by adrenaline that day, for hours on end. He could get no one to listen to him. No one to help him get to me to protect me from what he perceived to be a suicide mission."

Sherlock looks at Maggie and Galen. "Once I returned, the adrenaline rush began to subside. The next morning, John – was not himself."

"All three of you warned me, that day in the library. You and Oakton and my own family physician, warned me that John's repeated exposure to Frank's drug was taking a horrid toll on John's mental health. And his confused, uncharacteristic behavior that morning seemed to bear this out. Over the next two days, John received multiple injections of your formula, Galen, and he did not experience a single attack. But he seemed to be slipping farther and farther away from us. We all assumed it was Frank's drug, when in fact, it was a natural reaction to a substance John no longer needed, but was repeatedly being given."

Sherlock speaks directly to John, so quietly the others can barely hear him. "John's mind – and body - simply could not withstand the constant chemical onslaught. Who among us could?"

Sherlock sighs and plunges his hands in the pockets of his jeans. "In fact, John's next attack occurred in the formal dining room, a scant few hours before the mansion began to explode. And that was much milder in nature. John did not lose consciousness during this attack. I know; I sat it out with him."

Maggie stirs finally and looks at Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you saying – what are you saying, exactly?"

Sherlock steeples his hands under his chin and regards both Maggie and Galen.

"What I am saying, when you cut through everything that happened and focus on the facts, is this: Adrenaline serves to chase Frank's drug out of the bloodstream. It "hurries it along" so to speak. And not only that, adrenaline has served, all along, to help bring John back to himself."

"But once the need for those adrenaline doses no longer existed, John began to react to the high doses of medication he is constantly being given. Medication he no longer needs or requires."

Galen frowns. ""Sherlock, I based my injections of John on established addiction –

"Doctor Dennison, no one blames you for treating John. It is what I wanted and John wanted, after all. All along, we thought we were dealing with an addictive substance, on the par of cocaine or even heroin."

Sherlock checks his watch, smiles grimly.

"Why do people crave certain drugs? In the case of cocaine, it's to experience the euphoria of the cocaine high. In the case of heroin, the calming, almost blanketing influence the drug can have on the central nervous system."

"Why has John craved Frank's drug? It creates neither a feeling of euphoria or of calm. Quite the opposite. John craved Frank's drug, in fact cursed every one of us when we refused to give it to him, because he was in pain. Unremitting neuromuscular pain, during an attack. His system couldn't handle the constant input. John was in pain. He tried to make the pain stop. We refused to allow that to happen. "

Sherlock resumes pacing, his hands in his pockets. "We have kept John's system 'hyped up' as it were, with a more or less constant, low-grade bombardment of adrenaline – replicating the "fight or flight" response. Couple that with the fact that Captain John Watson has always taken personal responsibility for the people under his command, and when one of them dies," here Sherlock looks straight into John's dark blue gaze, "when one of them dies, particularly when that individual deliberately sacrificed himself to save John, is it any wonder that his mind nearly snapped?"

Sherlock straightens up and looks at each person in the room in turn: Maggie, Galen, Lori and finally John.

His tone is grim. "Don't you see? The so-called addiction was not an actual addiction in that it could be treated by any of the normal counteragents, yet that's exactly what we've been doing."

He looks at John. "We haven't been helping John. We've been killing John. Every bloody time we inject the man for an addiction that never existed in the first place."

Dead silence.

John's eyes widen and Sherlock can see that his breathing rate has increased, but other than that, the doctor says nothing.

Maggie frowns. "But Sherlock, that's not right. William observed, hell you yourself observed, as did we all, John's reactions to Frank's drug. The arching spine, pain, accelerated heart rate, obvious signs of distress—"

Sherlock nods. "I'm not saying that John didn't have a reaction to that damned drug. But it's a huge leap from reaction to addiction. And keep in mind, it was repeatedly re-introduced to his bloodstream. At last count, John has had over fifteen, possibly more, micro injections of it. Of course, he still exhibits reactions. The trace amounts are still in his bloodstream. But his reactions are becoming milder and more easily handled."

"Moriarty had other test subjects. John was not the only one. And the last two victims, both men used to leading extremely active lives, committed suicide. Both of them had been receiving almost the exact counter agent that you, Galen, had made up for John. Both men lived alone. There was no one close to them, no one living with them, who could identify or recognize suicidal thoughts or tendencies when they occurred."

Sherlock's voice becomes matter of fact. "What does a system do when it can't purge the host of a poison?"

"You kill the host," Lori says grimly. "In this instance –

Sherlock nods. "In this instance, the host being John Watson." His hands come out of his pockets and he places one strong hand on John's shoulder, squeezes. "I'm sorry, John. So damned sorry I didn't see it earlier."

John nods at Sherlock. He doesn't trust himself to speak.

Sherlock smiles. "And now it stops. Tonight."

Galen frowns. "If John intends to go 'cold', his heart –"

Sherlock whirls to look at Galen. "His heart is as strong as an ox. Dr. Merit said so in St. Anne's and I've already been on the phone with him. Bloody hell, I've been blind. Every possible test was performed on John's heart- twice - at my request and it couldn't be any stronger."

Sherlock turns back to John. "There is nothing wrong with John Watson's heart."

" _Nothing wrong at all,"_ thinks Sherlock.

Galen stirs for the first time in minutes. "Sherlock, I'm not technically John's doctor. If anyone, I would assume that either Merit or Thomas Fields would have that honor. If you are determined to go through with this –"

For the first time, John speaks. "I am." He looks at Sherlock across the room. "We are."

The detective nods.

Dennison sighs. "Then there's nothing I can say or do to dissuade you. You have a nurse on hand. You have an ample supply of his medications. I would suggest that you have an ambulance or the ability to get one quickly."

"It's his 'medications' that are the issue," says Sherlock evenly. "What we are attempting to do is purge John's system of the 'cure' that might have killed him.  I do expect there to be residual effects from Frank's drug, but hopefully, not for long."  He glances at John.  "And the ambulance won't be an issue.  There will be one on hand."  

John says nothing concerning the ambulance.  Mentally, he shrugs.  _Yet one more thing they have to thank Mycroft for, he thinks._

Galen and Maggie look at each other. Maggie nods. Galen looks from her to Sherlock, then to John.

"John, if you're looking for me to agree with this – I cannot. If you wish to do this, then I would urge you to do it in a hospital environment. With plenty of trained personnel on hand and –"

"No hospitals," John says evenly. His tone of voice brooks no argument.

Dennison raises one eyebrow. "I cannot be part of this, Sherlock and John. For obvious reasons. I am 100% against it, unless you agree to do it in hospital. Since you don't … oh, damn it. I need to be on hand with you but this bloody –"

"Galen," says Maggie quietly. "Lori knows what she is doing. And they have trained personnel on hand."

She looks up at Sherlock and for the first time, the detective sees the amused look in her eyes.

" _She doesn't miss much, our doctor Oakton_ ," he thinks. And wonders again how she and Mycroft came to know each other.

"I assume you will also have an ambulance with trained personnel standing by?"

Sherlock inclines his head. "Yes, and Ms. Hansen has agreed to be on hand this evening, straight through tomorrow, if need be."

She turns to Galen and smiles. "See, Galen? It's going to be all right."

Maggie stands abruptly and crosses to John. She holds out her slim hand. Startled, John straightens, then takes her hand in his.

"John. I never really got the chance to tell you, Thank you, John Watson. Thank you for saving my life, for saving all our lives back there. You were amazing."

She wants to hug him but doesn't dare, not in front of Sherlock.  _Oh, what the hell._

Maggie puts her arms around John and hugs him. A moment, then his arms come up around her. There is something comforting about this woman, after all, and John is just beginning to see it.

She places her cheek against his, whispers something in his ear. John looks at her, amused now. He nods.

Sherlock cocks one dark eyebrow. Maggie nods and pulls back, crosses to Sherlock and holds out her hand. He takes it slowly.

"For a consulting detective, you're not half bad, when you're not holding guns to people's heads."

She reseats herself next to Galen and considers both men in front of her.

"Just promise me, promise us both, you'll let us know how this goes. I mean it, Sherlock. I expect a text or phone call, something, in the morning, to let us know how it went."

Sherlock nods, only a little at sea. He glances at John, who still stands upright, nearly at parade rest. Lori bends over to hug Galen, then goes around and does the same thing with Maggie.

Sherlock, John and Lori say their goodbyes, nod at the two doctors, and leave Bart's.

Lori glances back, and Galen winks at her. She grins at the two doctors, then rushes to join John and Sherlock.

In the taxi on the way to Baker Street, Lori sits opposite them, turned slightly to the side to give them privacy. She speaks quietly to Joe over her mobile

Sherlock glances at John. "What did she whisper?"

"Hmm?" John continues to watch the scenery pass.

"Come off it. Oakton. What did she whisper to you?"

"Oh that." He turns his head to look at Sherlock and raises one blonde eyebrow.

Sherlock's mouth purses. "Yes, that."

John considers him for a moment, then grins tiredly. "She just told me that you were one hell of a lucky man." He goes back to watching the scenery pass. "That's all."

"Humph."

They ride in silence. Sherlock hears Lori tell Joe good night. She drops her phone in her purse and turns her head to watch the scenery, still trying to give the men the illusion of privacy.

He turns back to John.

"She's right, you know."

John just shrugs. "Obvious."

Sherlock grins. "Oh shut up, you idiot."

"John, there is a certain amount of risk involved.  What we are attempting to do is purge your system of every trace of the counter-agents that you have been injected with, to stop your reactions to the very medications we believed were helping you.  The underlying reactions to Moriarty's drug, weakening as they may be, may still be present, including possible long-term effects.  You do realize that?"

John nods. He looks out his window and says nothing.

Sherlock considers his lover's quiet form for a moment. He puts out his left hand.  John Watson turns to look at Sherlock.  He slips his hand into Sherlock's.  The two men regard each other in the back of the taxi.

Sherlock's voice is quiet. "Regarding the risks, basically, you don't give a fuck, do you?"

John's voice is steady. "Not a single gram."

Sherlock nods. "Fair enough."

They finish their cab ride in silence.

**OooOooO**

**10:30 pm.**

**Baker Street**

"How's he doing?" Mrs. Hudson's voice is low, concerned. She comes in with a rather large platter and Lori moves to take it out of her hands. The two women go quietly into the kitchen, where Lori has cleared space on the scarred table top. They busy themselves putting the food onto plates, then wrapping the plates, setting out cups, silverware.

No one is particularly hungry. But she wants to have food out in case John can choke something down. And Sherlock.

Lori glances into the living area, and shakes her head. She keeps her voice low.

"I think he's all right, at the moment. He's very tired. I got him to lie down, but he won't go into the bedroom. Insists on kipping on the sofa." She looks up at the older woman and smiles. "Sherlock can't stop pacing."

Mrs. Hudson sighs and nods, her lined face showing her own exhaustion. "What I expected. All things being equal, John will show more concern over Sherlock than for his own condition."

Lori sighs. She takes a sip of water, leans back against the kitchen sink. "I just hope I'll be of some use when John – Doctor Watson…" her voice trails off and she yawns.

Mrs. Hudson smiles. "Get some rest, dear. A perfectly nice bed with all the trimmings was installed upstairs while the three of you were at hospital. It's waiting on you. I'm sure Sherlock will call you when John needs you."

As if on cue, both women hear the slight groan. Lori glances at Mrs. Hudson, then hurries into the living area. The older woman shakes her head and quietly leaves. She pulls their door to behind her.

At the sofa, Sherlock bends over John, who lies on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes. The other arm lies next to him and Lori sees the sturdy fingers clench. He groans again and the detective hurries to help John to a sitting position. Lori glances at the doctor's face, then rushes to their loo and is quickly back with a warm, wet cloth. She snags her stethoscope off the coffee table and kneels down next to John.

The doctor looks terrible. His face is gray and pain lines score his forehead. His body shakes and the detective sits next to him, pulls John to him and wraps one long arm around his Army doctor.

John looks into Lori's concerned gaze and tries to smile. No good.

Sweat pools at his forehead and Lori wipes the sick man's face with the warm cloth. John nods his thanks. He keeps lips pressed together, Lori thinks with pain, but Sherlock suspects it's a bid to keep from cursing at them both.

"Hold on, John. We're here. I've got you." He murmurs into John's bright hair. John nods again and leans against the detective. His hands clench and his breath comes in gasps but he makes no other sound or movement, even when Lori warms the stethoscope against her palm, then pushes aside his button-down to listen to his heart. Satisfied, she straightens.

"Water?" The request comes out in a tortured gasp and both Sherlock and Lori glance at each other, as she reaches for the glass with the straw. John drinks then waves it away and lifts his head. His eyes are unfathomably dark, haunted. Sherlock winces at the bruising under John's eyes. The doctor pulls away from Sherlock and makes as if to stand, but the detective holds on to him with determination.

"No, John. Best to sit here. Or lie down."

"Sherlock – I can't. I thought I could but I …can't." John's voice shakes and now his body begins to shake in earnest. He turns slightly and grasps at Sherlock's shirt with both hands, his fingers twist in the silk fabric. He ducks his head into Sherlock's chest and the detective knows his Army doctor doesn't want the little nurse to see him.

"John, Ms. Hansen is here to help you. We both are. It's going to be okay."

"No, it's not," John whispers, in harsh tones. He lifts his head, his eyes wide and his tone utterly desperate. "It's not, Sherlock. Help me. Just – for god's sakes, please. I – I need…" He looks at Lori's face. She kneels next to him and repeatedly wipes his face with the warm cloth.

His eyes narrow, then he looks back at Sherlock. His strong fingers are still bunched in the cool fabric of the dark shirt. "Damn it. Damn you – both of you!"

John begins to struggle in earnest and it's all Sherlock can do to hold him down. "John. John!"

Lori stands quickly, grabs a small bag off the coffee table and yanks it open. She comes up with a hypo, already prepared, and moves to sit next to John. "John? John! Listen to me? Can you listen? I can give you a tranquilizer. It will stop the pain and help you to sleep."

John's left hand swings out, knocks the hypo out of Lori's hand. She gasps and scrambles to retrieve it. In one desperate motion, John pulls away from Sherlock's grasp and manages to get to his feet, wavering. He fights to stand and would go down but the taller man is instantly there and grabs onto the doctor's heaving form. The two men struggle, but John is exhausted and no match for Sherlock's determined strength.

Sherlock pulls John into his embrace and nods once at Lori. She moves in and quickly shoves his shirt sleeve aside and injects the tranquilizer.

John shudders in Sherlock's grasp but makes no further move to get away. The two men remain standing, the shorter leaning against the taller, until John's breathing pattern alters and his head slumps forward. Then in one motion, Sherlock bends, lifts and lays the shaking body of his Army doctor back on the sofa. He smoothes the damp spikes away from John's eyes and watches his face settle into a semblance of sleep. He covers him over with a blanket. John shakes as if with cold, although the night is warm and the flat is more than comfortable.

Lori hurries back with a fresh wet cloth and begins to wipe John's face and hands again. Sherlock watches her for a moment, then goes back to pacing their living area, hands plunged in the pockets of his trousers.

"How much longer," he says out loud, to no one in particular.

Lori looks up at him, from where she kneels next to John. She shakes her head but does not answer at first. There is no ready answer.

Then, "As long as it takes," she says quietly.

Sherlock nods. And paces.

**OooOooO**

**4:00 am.**

**Baker Street**

John heaves into the toilet, desperately trying to purge his stomach of its contents, little enough as it is. Sherlock holds on to him determinedly, then helps him rinse his mouth and wash his face. They make their slow way back into the sitting room. Sherlock glances over at John's chair. Lori sleeps curled up into a ball, her head resting on her hands. As they come back, she opens her eyes, glances at her watch and her brown eyes widen.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs. She hastens to her feet and moves to help Sherlock get the doctor settled back onto the sofa.

A text chime sounds and Sherlock retrieves his mobile, glances at it, sends a quick reply and hits Send. He looks over at John, who has just sat up again and at Lori, as she sits next to him and smoothes his hair back from his face. "Can you lie down now, Doctor Watson?"

John shakes his head. He does not speak, all his energy caught up in the internal struggle. He glances up at Sherlock.

The detective tosses his mobile back onto a table. "Mycroft," he drawls with irritation. "Checking on you. There are paramedics standing by, if we need them."

John shakes his head. "No," he whispers.

He begins to shake. Sherlock hurries over to him.

**OooOooO**

**6:00 am**

**Baker Street**

Lori holds the cup of warm tea to John's mouth while Sherlock holds onto him from the other side.

"Please, Doctor Watson. Just try."

John's eyes are clenched shut. He opens them, stares into her brown ones for a second, nods, then lifts one shaking hand to the mug. As soon as his fingers curl around the warm brew, he suddenly yanks it out of her hand and hurls it across the room.

The mug shatters against the far wall.

John's eyes close.

**OooOooO**

**9:30 am**

**Baker Street**

Sherlock finishes speaking with Mycroft, tells him he can dismiss the ambulance and attendants, then comes back into their living area. For a minute, he just stands there.

John sits huddled on the floor, next to the sofa. Lori Hansen kneels next to him, one small hand on his shoulder. John's arms wrap around his bare knees, where he has pulled them up to his chest. He rocks slightly back and forth, his back hitting the sofa edge each time. He is on his second change of clothing and has long since abandoned the jeans for boxers and a simple tee shirt and wool socks. One shining dog tag hangs around his neck. He mutters something, first in a loud voice, then lower. His voice goes up and down, in a weird sing song. It almost sounds as if he is chanting.

Lori just listens. A smile plays around her face. Beside them, the coffee table is cluttered with glasses of water – partially full, mugs of tea - cold, plates of food – mostly uneaten, damp cloths, Lori's stethoscope, her notebook and pens - and three hypos: two empty and one full.

John's eyes are shut and his face is pale. But not as grey as it appeared the night before. His body shakes and his hands grip each other with intensity to help stave off the shaking.

Sherlock comes to stand over them. "How's he doing?" he says quietly. John gives no indication that he's even aware the detective stands next to him. He keeps on rocking. And chanting.

Lori looks up into Sherlock's eyes.

"He's worked his way through the 'shites,' 'hells,' and 'god-damns,' and has made it to 'cock-sucking bastards' and 'fucking sorry arse excuse for human beings,' so I guess you can say he's better."

Her dark brown eyes look into Sherlock's grey ones with tired amusement.

Sherlock nods. "Excellent."

Beside her, John moves on to all the curses he knows in Pashto, Dari, Spanish, Italian – and Japanese. Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. He had no earthly idea that John knew any Japanese.

He's impressed.

**OooOooO**

**4:30 pm.**

**Baker Street**

"Call me, if you need me. Promise me you will call." Lori's voice is insistent. She places one small hand on Sherlock's arm and looks up into his pale eyes.

"I promise," he says quietly, his normally deep baritone shakes with fatigue.

She nods at him, glances down their hallway. She bends and hoists her handbag and medical bag. Behind her, Joe Rodriguez nods curtly at Sherlock. He takes her bag and begins to usher her out of the flat. Lori turns once, considers, then rushes back to Sherlock and throws her arms around him. He has to bend to hug her and pat her back.

"We – I could not have done any of this without you, Ms. Hansen." He straightens and regards the tiny nurse with affection. "I know John feels the same way. And he'll be in touch. As soon as he gets some rest."

She nods. "I know that. I – all right then."

She turns and goes hurriedly down the seventeen steps with her man. Sherlock watches her go, then tiredly closes – and locks – their door.

"Sherlock?"

He turns. John stands in the doorway, freshly showered. He wears jeans and a dark tee. His feet are bare. The dog tag hangs around his neck. His bright hair is damp.

He regards the detective for a moment, then crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall. He cocks one blonde eyebrow at Sherlock.

And grins.

**OooOooO**

" _ **License my roaming hands…."**_

John lies on his side and watches the play of light and shadow over the planes of Sherlock's face.

He'd forgotten, forgotten that they used to lie in bed like this, and just get lost, one in the other. Talk over the day's events. Laugh at the Yarders. Plan. Snuggle. Love. He wonders how many other little things, precious rituals, he's forgotten, wonders what else has been left by the wayside in a chemical-induced haze there in that hated room – his prison - in the Wellington. As well as his room at St. Anne's.

How much more of _Sherlock_   _and John_  has gone missing?

But he does not worry about it. Not now. It will be fun, remembering, rediscovering them all.

It has been a long time. And, John suspects, the road has been just as long for Sherlock as it has been for him.

He sees the small pain in the back of Sherlock's eyes and knows that the amazing mind, the exacting, self-critical nature, of his friend will not allow him to forgive himself for what he perceives to be a failure on his part.

"You couldn't have possibly known where to look," John says softly. He reaches up with one palm, and places it against Sherlock's cheek. And just holds it there.

Sherlock leans into the caress. Warm. Strong. John.  _Home._

"I was slow," he says, just as quietly. "It was as if my thought processes were muddled. I couldn't  _think,_  John. Not in the way I normally do. Not at first, anyway. Not without you by my side."

John nods slowly. He does not mouth the usual placating phrases: "It's all right." "Don't worry about it." And the grandmother of all useless phrases: "Everything's fine."

Everything isn't fine.

But they are alive. They are together. John feels more like himself, with each hour that passes. Make that with each minute.

And that's all that counts now.

He searches for something to say to soothe this over. Nothing good enough comes to mind.

Finally, he simply says, "Thanks. Thanks for finding me. For saving me. For everything, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes, already an impossible amalgam of silver light and grey shadow, grow larger.

" _If that is even possible_ ," thinks John.

Somewhere in the back of John's mind, there is a list of  _things that must be done_. One of the first is get Sherlock to the specialist Mycroft has rooted out to get the detective started on his physical therapy. To do what must be done to bring the music back. And they have a funeral to attend. He does not flinch at this and by this one fact alone, John knows he is coming back to himself. He sighs at the sadness of the list, and when the by-now familiar pain surfaces, lets it wash over his mind for a few seconds, then deliberately gathers it up and parks it.

And comes back to the moment. Tomorrow for all that.

Today, here, now, is for them.

John Watson looks at Sherlock and allows himself to do something he hasn't done in ages. He allows himself to openly stare at his lover.

His glance goes from the dark curls that tumble over the pale forehead, one corkscrew of hair drifting lazily downward to rest over one eyebrow. He brushes it back, impatient with anything that obscures his view of those beautiful eyes. He continues his observation of the gorgeous face, all angles and light and shadow, down the aquiline nose with its faint upturned tip to the remarkable mouth. The impossible lips curve lazily upward, reflecting growing want. And desire.

Those lips.

" _The time is past,"_   John thinks,  _"for talking_." And thinking. The hows and whys and wherefores. It will all come out in time. Each time they lie together like this, another bit of the puzzle will fall into place.

He can wait.

In the meantime, John can think of other things he would rather be doing.

Starting with those lips.

He leans in and takes Sherlock's first kiss of the day. His lips, warm, skate over the soft surface of his love's mouth and Sherlock grins against John's mouth. His eyes temporarily close.

"Hmmmm. Nice." Sherlock's eyes reopen and he looks into John's dark blue gaze.

"You do know, Doctor Watson, that I very much fear my recent ministrations on your behalf have left me rather exhausted. "

John continues to nuzzle at those lips, rakes his tongue over the bottom one, then kisses the full gorgeous mouth, over and over.

"My dear Mr. Holmes, it does sound as if you are in dire need of a personal physician."

Sherlock's right arm, now gently lying under John's ribs, pulls his doctor close to him. In a moment – mindful of his soldier's painful ribs - he will twist and lift their bodies so John lands on top. He wants to feel the entire length of John pressed along his body, skin against skin, muscle against muscle. For now, his hand gets a fistful of tee and tightens, tugs. Another thing he will do, make certain the tee shirt goes, as quickly as possible, followed by the boxers. He needs to _feel_  his doctor, every blessed inch of him.

John moves closer, but does not stop kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock smiles against John's lips.

"A personal physician? Isn't that against the rules of the NHS?"

John pulls back ever so slightly, to smile directly into Sherlock's eyes. The detective catches his breath at the wide-eyed gaze, ocean-blue, guileless. Although the dark smudges under his eyes remain, John's eyes are clear, for the first time in weeks. Sherlock's heart tumbles.

John leans in again.

"Screw the NHS." John takes his love's mouth and begins to ravage, to claim.

Unable to speak, Sherlock sighs and kisses John back, meeting caress with caress, tongue with tongue, moist heat with moist heat.

He shuts his eyes. And lets his tongue – and hands – roam where they will.

A few minutes and he begins to hum, a low, throaty vibration that begins in the back of his throat and reverberates through his ribcage. John can feel the low growl through his lips and fingertips, as they splay against the strong chest. He hears it as a tiny thrumming sound clearly audible in the quiet of their bedroom.

He's not even sure that Sherlock knows he's doing this. Has done this ever since they became a couple. John decides it's unimportant. He's pair-bonded to a jungle cat. Obvious. John mentally shrugs and goes on doing one of the things he does best. Kissing Sherlock.

Sherlock is humming. All is well.

John smiles. Happy. Content to be _John._

" _John Watson, lucky bastard,"_ he thinks lazily.

Just beyond their heads, as if in benediction, the afternoon sun slants in and paints their room in hues of warmth. The rays pick out dust motes, and set them aflame, tiny drops of sparkling gold, that dance and tumble in streams of amber light.

Neither man notices.

**OooOooO**

Sometime during the night, John wakes to the most peculiar sensation. Peculiar, yet not altogether unpleasant. He catches his breath. Thinks,  _"What in bloody hell_?"

Soft, pliant lips slowly kiss their way up his bare spine. Every few inches, they stop and sharp teeth nip at his skin. The faintest of kisses is planted on top of the nip, a warm tongue licks at the nipped area, and then more kisses are bestowed, upward, ever upward. When his madman finally reaches the top of John's spine, a warm hand gently bends John's head slightly forward ( John sleepily goes along with this) and a last nip and kiss is planted quite firmly on the back of his neck. Then his head is released and Sherlock's face nuzzles into his neck. His curls tickle the back of John's neck and ear. His warm breath wafts out over John's scalp.

One long arm crosses John's chest and tugs him gently back against the lean chest. The other arm circles his head and cool fingers begin to sift through his hair. John smiles in the dark. And lets out his breath in a relaxed sigh.

" _Should have expected it,"_  he thinks hazily. He says nothing but his right hand roams behind him and his fingers tighten over one lean hip, squeeze, then release the naked muscle under his palm.

The tiny humming sound, a susurrus, reverberates through the skin and muscles of his back. He can feel the vibrations through the skin of his back.

He grins in the dark. And begins to drift back to sleep, once again branded as the private property of one Sherlock Holmes.

 _There are worse ways to be awakened,_  his sleeping mind thinks.

"John?" The breathy growl tickles his ear.

"Hmmm?" John shifts position, arches his back slightly. His detective curves and refits himself around John's body, one long leg thrown over his, and one cool hand snakes round and presses against his heart, claiming him.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Nothing. Just - "

"Just making sure?"

"Hmmm. Yes."

Sherlock's lips nuzzle and kiss John's shoulders, then down his upper arm. "Do you mind?"

"Go to sleep, you nutter."

"Yes, John."

The men settle down. John's lips curve upward in a smile. He snuggles against the other man and sighs in deep contentment. A few moments of rest – and his eyes snap open.

Under his skin, the faintest of tremors start, beginning as a trembling deep in his abdomen and building to spread throughout his chest and arms and hands. A slow heat builds in his veins. Sparks of pain skitter along his nerve endings. Fainter than before, but there nonetheless. His body shakes. His breath hitches and his heart begins to race. John's fingers dig compulsively into the lean hip beside him.

John's groan is slight, but audible. Sherlock's arms immediately tighten around his chest, pulling him close. Closer. Long legs wrap round his own. He is quickly enveloped in a cocoon of limbs and hands and soft breath that warms his skin.

"Sherlock –"

"Hold on," the throaty baritone whispers into John's ear. "Hold on, John. I've got you."

Long fingers splay out over John's heart. He can feel the warmth where they grip his bare skin.

He is not alone.

He is loved.

John holds on.

**Oo0oO**

 

 

John and Sherlock scenes written under the influence of  _Hallelujah_ , sung by various artists.

 _This Way Forever_ , by Jumeaux;  _I Must Have Done Something Right,_  Relient K

And  _A Thousand Years_ , Artist: Christina Perri (view on YouTube)

The "just making sure" line harkens back to Piglet's line to Winnie the Pooh. (yes, truly)

"License my roaming hands" quote from " _Elegy XIX: To His Mistress Going to Bed,_  John Donne.

Mycroft written under the influence of far too many glasses of Verdi Spumanti (does that stuff come in zero calories formula?)

Mummy written at her direct command. No outside influences necessary.

Oo0oO

 


	3. Chapter 3

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 3**

_**The Devil is in the details** _

_**A week in the life of a Consulting Detective and a former Army Captain…** _

**OooOooO**

**221B Baker Street**

John Watson is sleeping.

It is not a near desperate sleep brought on by panic, anxiety and sheer exhaustion. It's not drug-induced.

He is not in the throes of nightmare, fighting a losing battle in Afghanistan, losing blood to the brown soil under a brilliant sky. He is not reliving the utterly terrifying nightmares brought on by Frank's filthy drug.

He is not in despair.

Quite the opposite. His chest slowly rises and falls and his face is quiet, peaceful.

" _And,"_ thinks Sherlock Holmes _,"beautiful_."

Sherlock, who has been awake for several hours, lies on his side and watches John sleep.

He has watched him sleep under so many circumstances recently, most of them horrid. But this calm interlude fascinates the detective and he props himself up on one arm and watches as the early morning sun softly tints John's features and brings out the blonde highlights in his hair, eyebrows and eyelashes. John's skin, far too pale from his recent illness, seems to glow in the faint golden light.

Under his closed eyelids, John's eyes move rapidly back and forth. His Army doctor dreams.

He wonders what about. Then dismisses it as unimportant.

John is sleeping. All is well.

At least…until the text chime sounds. Sherlock lunges for his mobile and his arm brushes over John's hair. John turns on his back in his sleep, one hand reaches out and as Sherlock settles back against the pillows, mobile in hand, John rests his palm on top of the other man's abdomen.

Sherlock smiles. And reads his text.

" _Excellent. And it's about bloody time. Sent him enough text messages. What was the man doing all night, anyway?"_

"John. John!"

"Hmmmm…"

"Wake up. Are you going to sleep all day?"

John opens one blue eye, shuts it immediately and turns on his side, away from Sherlock, cradles his head against his hand. "Hmmm. Too early."

"No it isn't. Get up, John."

The mattress shifts under John as his mad detective scrambles over his body and begins yanking open bureau drawers.

John reluctantly lets go of his dream, which dissipates into the ether, immediately forgotten, and opens both eyes. He sighs, his ears still full of the quiet hum of bees, and looks over at Sherlock. The detective is throwing on clothes like nobody's business.

And talking. As he talks, he rummages through piles of clothing and tosses jeans, a dark red button-down, and wool socks at the man in the bed.

"Lestrade. We have a case. Dead body, female, found in warehouse district by night watchman. Pretty obvious, really, but I told him we'd take a look."

"Case. Good." John shuts his eyes again and sighs. His first hours of natural sleep and now …

The dark blue eyes open again. "A case? Really?"

"Yes. And I need you dressed and ready in five minutes." Sherlock rushes out of their room.

John turns on his back and stares at the patterns of light the early morning sun makes on the ceiling over his head.

"Well," he murmurs. "It was nice while it lasted."

Smiling to himself, he struggles to rise and begins to dress.

He is just buttoning the red shirt when Sherlock is back, John's own personal whirlwind.

He thrusts something at John.

"Here. Tea. Drink." Then he's gone again.

John gingerly accepts the barely warm mug with the two teabags in it, raises one blonde eyebrow, then reaches to set the murky brew on the bedside table.

As they leave the flat, Sherlock shoves something wrapped in foil into John's hand.

"Here. Toast."

In the taxi, on their way to the crime scene, John unwraps the foil packet.

Bread. One slice. With what looks like butter. Butter that was attacked with a dull knife and obviously made to kow tow to the bread.

John can tell the butter went unwillingly to its fate. He glances at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, this isn't toast. It's bread, with a pat of butter in the middle of it. A cold pat of butter. Solid even. Oops. Now it's bread with a hole in the middle where the butter used to be."

He bends over to try to retrieve the yellow blob from the taxi floor. Gives it up as a lost cause, toes the butter to the side and hopes no one notices.

"It's nearly toast, John."

"Nearly toast? Sherlock, it's bread. Bread is just – raw toast, Sherlock."

"Well, there might have been a problem with the toaster."

Silence.

"It's a brand new toaster, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, John it is. Was."

"Was. What did you do?"

"Oh, for heaven's sakes. As if it's important. Now listen, here is what we know about the crime scene."

"We know nothing about the crime scene, Sherlock. Yet. It's a brand new toaster, Sherlock. What did you do?"

"I think you're fixated on toast, John. Now about the crime scene –"

"What I am fixated on, Mr. Holmes, if anything, is making it through the day, just one bloody day, Sherlock, a minimum of twenty-four hours, without my manic flat mate blowing up the microwave, spilling acid on our kitchen table, contaminating the foodstuffs in the refrigerator or – apparently – shorting out our brand new toaster. Is this too much to ask?"

Silence.

Pouty silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Really, John. Our first case since – well, our first case and you insist on harping on the idiotic toaster."

More silence.

"I might have conducted a small experiment while you slept, just to see if an extraordinarily porous substance, such as cellulose, will indeed self-conflagrate when a certain level of heat is introduced."

John turns his head to regard him steadily.

"Cellu - You put a wet kitchen sponge in our brand new toaster. And shorted it out."

"I was bored. You were sleeping."

"Yes, Sherlock, yes I was. And enjoying it immensely, too, I might add. So you shorted out the –"

"Actually, the heating element caught fire."

"How old are you? Six? What am I going to do with you? No. Don't answer that."

The two men ride in silence for a few minutes.

"My fault," John says quietly. Sherlock's dark head whips around.

"What?"

The doctor sighs dramatically, turns his head to regard the other man. "I said, Sherlock, this is my fault."

"John, I hardly think you can take the blame for a minor experiment gone wrong when you were clearly unconscious at the –"

John shakes his head. "No. I didn't mean the bloody sponge, Sherlock. I meant –" he stops, stares at the other man.

"Unless it was, actually, _bloody?_ "

The detective sniffs. "Don't be absurd, John. Soaking, yes. But no, not actually bloody."

"Good. Then I repeat my original statement. This is my fault. All your attention has been on me. You don't have a single experiment in the flat. You don't have any lab equipment, unpacked at least. I suspect your best microscope was destroyed in the mansion. There's nothing in the fridge except food and precious little of that. And your violin –"

Dead silence. Sherlock turns his head to watch the scenery outside. When it comes his voice is muffled.

"You're being ridiculous. None of that is your fault and as for the Stradivarius –"

"Sherlock, I am so sorry. I never even mentioned it before now, too much has happened. But I can't even imagine how you feel about the destruction of your violin."

"It is – was - just a violin, John."

"No. No, it wasn't - and I know it." John puts his hand out and slowly, softly, Sherlock puts his into the warm palm. John looks directly into the beautiful pale eyes.

"Sherlock, I know we've been through hell. And we're just beginning to come out the other side. And I know we've got difficult times ahead, beginning with Rob Enders' funeral this afternoon. But your violin – it was beautiful. Unique. A work of art and I – damn it, I don't know much about music—" Here the detective raises one eyebrow.

John sighs. "Okay, I don't know a bloody thing about music or violins, but I know how special _that_ violin was. And I know how everything you played sounded when you –"

"Let it go, John. None of this is helpful."

Sherlock turns his head back to the scenery. After a moment of silence, John squeezes the long fingers gently, then withdraws his hand. He watches London pass his window for a few minutes, then turns his head again. This time he glances at Sherlock's left hand as it lies on the seat between them. And at the line of bandages around the pale wrist, clearly visible under the cuff of Sherlock's jacket. He frowns.

**OooOooO**

John stands behind and a few feet back from Sherlock, arms crossed over his chest, a watchful look in his ocean-blue eyes.

His love lies face down alongside the corpse, arms splayed to his side, smoothing his palms up and down, in an arc, brushing them over the rough concrete.

Sherlock turns his head to the side, toward the dead body, and John can hear the faint sniff.

"Er, what are you doing?"

"Determining time of death, John. And feeling for the surface –"

"I told you the time of death, Sherlock, as close as I am able. And for fucks' sake, be careful. You're going to come away with friction burns on your palms and face."

Heavy sigh.

"John, while I truly appreciate your informing me the victim died approximately four hours ago, give or take a few minutes, and while we both know she was killed elsewhere and dumped here, I still feel safe making my own –"

"Oh for the love of – okay. Have at it, then. Whatever floats your boat."

John stands straight, plunges his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and glances around. A few med techs stand back away from the crime scene and watch in impatience. John knows the female slightly. He leaves Sherlock to it and crosses over to have a word.

"Is he any closer to -?" The head tech, a medic named Kinsey, nods at Sherlock .

The other med tech, a male with his arms crossed, just stands there and stares at the man supine on the ground. John glances back. Sherlock has stopped moving his palms up and down the concrete and is now reaching under the victim with one hand, while he digs in his pocket and comes up with his magnifier in the other.

Clearly, he's enjoying himself. For the first time in months. And John would rather take a bullet in the knee than do anything to stop him. He turns back to Kinsey. "Difficult to say," he murmurs. "He's very thorough."

"Yes, well, we appreciate that but we do have the D.I. here to consider and there is a dead body and –"

"He done yet? Oh for gods' sake, what is the mad bugger up to? John! You were to keep him in line. I thought that was understood."

Lestrade comes back up, his expression a mixture of exasperation: Sherlock-spawned. Irritation: intense. Sherlock again. And blatant anger. Both of them?

John raises an eyebrow at Greg Lestrade. The last time they saw each other, John was lying in a hospital bed having just woke up the day before. He doesn't remember the belligerent tone of voice. Or the angry body language. But then, John thinks, cutting himself a bit of slack here, he doesn't remember a whole hell of a lot from the past few weeks.

" _Make that two months or more_ ," he silently amends.

"Greg –" he stops when Lestrade turns a stern face toward him. "I think he's just about done."

Lestrade nods. "Good. Because we haven't got all day and I need whatever he's got. Now. Did you know he texted me 17 times last night?"

Greg tosses one last glance at Sherlock, who is now hovering a scant few inches over the body as a lover would, examining every inch of the corpse he can reach under the small glass. And humming. He's humming.

Greg raises a grey eyebrow, shakes his head, growls "Nutter," and walks away from them.

John stares after him. He turns to watch Sherlock, who appears to have finished and is about to rise. Then turns to watch Greg Lestrade's retreating figure.

His eyes narrow.

"Excuse me," he says to Kinsey.

He walks back to Sherlock, mindful of the few puddles that remain from the nights' rain, careful to step around them, and stands a few feet back as Sherlock comes to his feet, still humming slightly. The detective nods once, "Obvious," and pockets the magnifying glass. He glances around as if he's forgotten where he is and who is with him.

At the sight of his Army doctor, his eyes light up.

"John. Good. Take a note, will you?"

John sighs, roots for notepad and pen. The times Sherlock has actually _asked_ him to take notes at a crime scene are rare as John makes it a practice to always write down what the detective says. And to always have paper and pen ready. Granted, this particular crime scene isn't much of a mystery. The scenario seems all too obvious to John, who, sadly, has seen it many times before.

But they'll take what they can get. At least, until the poker the D.I. has up his arse melts or is forcibly removed. Mentally, John decides to chalk Lestrade's rather nasty attitude up to losing Sgt. Donovan and lets it go. He's prepared to cut the D. I. a bit of slack.

But not if he persists in insulting and ignoring Sherlock.

John suspects Greg blames them both for Sally's death. And that's all right, because John blames himself, as well. But self-recrimination isn't going to help anything at this point. He glances at his watch and nods. Just enough time to give Lestrade whatever info Sherlock has been able to glean and get home to shower and change. Rob Enders' funeral begins at 2:00 pm.

He flips to a blank page. And nods. "Ready when you are."

"Victim, female, body found in the nude, approximately 17 – 18, difficult to tell with all the makeup she's wearing. Never given birth. Natural blonde."

Sherlock stops and looks at John, his eyes glint. "Rare in these days of instant hair color, John, especially with a young person. And to be noted."

He nods, looks back down at the corpse.

"Strangled elsewhere. Neck snapped; body dumped here. Time of death already noted by Dr. J. H. Watson and I concur."

John smiles but keeps writing.

"Thin rope or cord used as murder weapon, possibly cord from window blind. Traces of recent, badly-removed manicure, self-administered. Recent pedicure, professional. Nail biter. Works as waitress. Lives with adult male, possibly father. Evidence of sexual relations before death. She knew her assailant. Killer definitely male."

John writes quickly in his own devised shorthand as Sherlock reels off his deductions. He observed the signs of recent sexual intercourse during his own examination. But that does not mean her assailant was male. All will be revealed in time. He nods and writes.

"Love bite on neck, recent. No signs of bruising around knees, hips or thighs, so rape not suspected at this time. Clear signs of abrasion on left cheek. Possible slap although no clear finger marks appear. Bruising around neck and larynx. Abrasions on both hands, between pads of thumbs and first fingers. She fought her attacker. Managed to get her hands up under the rope / cord and tried to pull it away from her throat. He's too quick for her. Quick jerk and her neck's broken. Tell coroner to pay particular attention to top of spine and condition of vertebrae. Killer was right-handed male. Three, possibly four inches taller than she. Back of head, shoulders, buttocks and calves show slight bruising where body unceremoniously dumped on concrete. He drove up, opened car door or boot, and rolled the body out."

John winces, but keeps writing.

"Back of hair mussed from struggle but also shows signs of dirt, but not mud. Possibly killed and fell on dry ground before she was transported here. Look for reports of young woman missing where it has not rained recently. Given recent near floods, that should narrow it down considerably. No visible traces of dirt under fingernails. Killer cut lock of hair after death, possible keepsake. Check records of recent deaths to see if any other match, as this is more typical of serial killer, collecting trophies. Everything boringly obvious except for the lock of hair. He took it from the left side of her head."

John notes it all, sickened by such a young life being extinguished so soon and in such a fashion. Sherlock drones on. John notices the almost bored tone of voice and stops another sigh as it works its way up his diaphragm

"Other than possibility of serial killer, which I doubt, determination is as follows: victim engaged in sexual intercourse with boyfriend. Adult male she lives with, possibly father, discovered them. Argument ensued. Hence the signs of a slap across her left cheek by a right-handed assailant who was several inches taller than she. He murdered her; panicked and dumped the body here. Possibly with help of boyfriend; probably not. Look for second dead body. Male, most probably around same age. Find where she worked and question her coworkers. Someone is bound to know who she was dating."

Sherlock pauses to take a breath. John keeps writing.

"The mystery comes in with the dry dirt trapped in her hair. Why dirt? Scenario points to murder occurring inside. No sign of dirt on tarmac so that can't be it."

Sherlock stops, and shakes his head.

"Stupid, stupid. Dirt obviously in boot of car. Have it analyzed. Possibly gardening or potting soil or the like. Kept in car and body dropped on top, leaving traces in her hair."

Sherlock stops speaking abruptly and John stops writing to look up at him.

The detective looks at him with a strange expression on his face. Curiosity? Concern? Definitely, concern _. Aw, of course. First day out._

"I'm fine, Sherlock," John says quietly. He glances into the grey-green eyes, then jerks his head toward the young woman's nude body. "Anything else?"

Sherlock looks at John. Shakes his head. "Rather typical, I'm afraid. And a bit tedious. But –"

Irritated at the man's cavalier attitude toward the young woman's death, John flips the notepad shut and drops it in his pocket. He regards Sherlock steadily and lets the familiar irritation leach out. Sherlock is – who he is. John lets the sigh escape.

"But, we'll take what we can get, for now," he says quietly. He plunges his hands in his pocket, fingers the balled up latex gloves he stuffed in there earlier.

Both men regard each other. Sherlock turns abruptly toward the medics and nods at both of them. He deliberately does not look at Lestrade, but gathers John up with a glance and turns to leave the scene. John glances at the D.I. who leans against the patrol car, his arms crossed over his chest. The D.I.'s expression is foreboding to say the least. He is obviously exhausted. Lestrade looks as if he has slept in his clothes. His coat, shirt, trousers, match his hair, all rumpled. All various shades of grey. John stares at Greg.

The D.I. straightens and comes toward them and John meets him halfway. He pulls the small notebook out and flips to the page to read him his notes. Greg listens in silence.

"What does he mean, look for a freaking second body? Christ, John." He runs his hands through his hair. Then nods distractedly. "Okay. All right."

He knows better than to ask John for his notes as no one at the Yard has been able to decipher them yet. He looks at Sherlock, who hasn't stopped walking or even turned in their direction. "What's up with him?"

John looks at Greg Lestrade. "Tired. We both are." He and Lestrade size each other up and John deliberately crosses his arms over his chest. Two can play at the intimidation game. And John Watson has never let his height deter him.

Apparently, John wins as Lestrade abruptly uncrosses his arms and lets them fall to his side, his hands clenched in loose fists. John wonders if he's about to be hit in the jaw.

Lestrade nods again. "Right. Have him text me anything else he remembers." And that is that. Not a 'thank you' or 'by your leave.'

Nothing.

John's lips purse and he turns from the D.I. A slow burn builds in his chest. Sherlock is already meters away, striding with purpose toward the main road.

"John?" The gravelly voice and the use of his name stop John in his tracks. He stops walking toward Sherlock and turns back to the D.I.

Lestrade looks at him, and John sees something in Greg's eyes he never remembers seeing before. Desperation?

"Tell him – thanks, will you?"

John looks him in the eye and nods once. "All right."

He starts to turn when he hears the quick steps behind him. Greg is in front of him suddenly and John takes a breath, again expecting that smack in the jaw. Lestrade clears his throat, his hands in his pockets. There are shadows under his eyes. He wonders when the D.I. last slept.

"I'm – glad, John. Very glad that you're feeling better. Thanks for coming out so early."

He holds out one hand. John takes it slowly. The two men shake hands and Lestrade drops his hand, then turns away from John, back toward the victim and his med techs.

John looks around at the abandoned warehouse, the rusting metal barrels and debris and glances back at the forlorn body that lies alone in the morning damp. He turns away and follows Sherlock.

At the road, they flag a taxi and the detective stands, his hands in the pockets of his short jacket. He shakes his curly head. "I don't know, John. If this is the best Lestrade can come up with –" his voice trails off and he appears lost in thought.

John stands next to him and watches the taxi maneuver toward them. "Early days, yet, Sherlock. He's clearly put out with us. Although he did ask me to tell you Thanks."

Sherlock yanks the taxi door open, waits for John to climb in first, then gets in beside him. "Put out, John? I think fucking angry says it better."

"Baker Street," he barks out at the cab driver.

Both men glance at their watches.

They are back in traffic and both settle down when Sherlock's left hand reaches toward the doctor. John turns to him and slips his hand into Sherlock's. The detective's fingers are cool from exposure to the morning air.

Sherlock does not turn toward John, but watches the scenery go by. When his voice comes, it's hesitant.

"You up for this?" he asks.

John turns his head to look at his friend's profile. Sherlock definitely needs a haircut but there's no time for it today. Tomorrow, then.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," he says, his voice just as quiet. The detective nods. He still doesn't turn to look at John but his hand tightens.

John squeezes his hand back. Turns to the view out his own window.

They ride in silence, both men lost in their thoughts.

OooOooO

When they return to Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson meets them in the entryway.

"Oh, boys, multiple deliveries this morning. I've had everything put in your living area. And your suits were returned, freshly pressed. I hung them on the back of your bedroom door."

"Sherlock, a word?"

Both men glance up the seventeen steps. John thanks the landlady and takes the steps two at a time. He leaves Sherlock to speak with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock looks after him for a moment, then follows Mrs. Hudson into her flat. She hands him a small package.

"You left this with me the other day, the day before John –"

"Yes. Of course. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." He seems in a hurry to take the package from her and not discuss its contents.

She smiles gently and watches him take the stairs, again two at a time, shakes her head and goes back into her flat.

"Good lord."

John stands in their living area in front of a small mountain of boxes and packages. Sherlock comes up behind him. Sherlock shrugs out of his coat and tosses it over the back of the sofa.

"Mycroft. Obvious," he intones. He leaves John with the pile of boxes and goes to their bedroom with the small parcel in his hands.

In their bedroom, he hurriedly slides it under a pile of underwear and socks and slams the bureau drawer shut before rejoining John. The doctor is in the process of opening the first box. He slides out a brand new laptop pc and whistles. Then he glances around at the other boxes.

"Looks like we might have two of these," he murmurs.

Sherlock tackles the next box in the pile. John is correct. A second notebook pc slides out. Both pc's have sticky notes attached with their names and password information. The men glance at the notes, then at each other. John silently hands the pc in his hands to Sherlock and Sherlock hands the one he holds to John.

A half hour later, all boxes have been opened and John sits on the edge of their sofa, surrounded by their new bounty. He truly appreciates the new laptops, one for each of them, which means he might, just might, be able to keep the detective from confiscating his laptop and actually use his own.

But for the life of John, he cannot begin to fathom what possessed either Anthea or her boss to send him new clothes. Jumpers and shirts, to be exact. He's more than capable of shopping for himself. John just tosses the clothing back into the boxes and shoves the boxes out of their way. Later for that.

Sherlock has a brand new microscope in one of the more padded boxes and for that, John is eternally grateful. He makes a mental note to call Mycroft and thank him. Or just say something at the funeral later. At the thought, John winces and his thoughts take a turn.

"Anthea has been a bit busy," he comments. He types away at a screen on his new pc, glances at the detective as he paces up and down between the open windows and the kitchen area. John checks his watch. Still time yet.

John returns his attention to his long neglected blog. He notes he has emails to answer and is pleasantly surprised to discover that some of his readers have noted the recent lack of updates and have inquired after him. Most of them, however, think he is dead. John opens email after email that contain electronic condolences. He wonders just who the senders think will read the sad notes.

He is about to answer one, then pauses and glances up at Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I've got a problem. No. We have a problem." John closes his laptop with a snap and rises.

The detective turns from the window and looks at him. "Yes, John. It's obvious that the readers of your blog think you are dead. As does most of the public. And you want to know how we are going to handle that?"

"Yes. I've love to know how Mycroft is handling that."

John crosses to the window and stands behind his love.

Sherlock sighs and turns to face John. He smiles grimly into the doctor's face.

"I believe a news story has been prepared to go out to all the normal media outlets, announcing that you and I were in some sort of protective custody brought about from immediate threats to our safety and that the broadcast of your supposed death was a necessary part of that plan."

John looks at him, his dark blue eyes even darker than usual. Five different arguments rise to his lips. He looks up into the pale eyes, thinks a minute, then just nods and voices none of them.

"Right. Lots of luck with that. Well, I'm first for the shower."

He leaves Sherlock standing in front of the window, staring after him.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock stands in the back of the chapel, tries to ignore his mounting headache, and waits for John to tell him it's time to be seated. He's never certain what constitutes appropriate behavior at social situations, particularly funerals, particularly _this_ funeral. Frankly, he's never had any use for funerals and finds them pointless and distracting. Dead is dead. How can any sort of social gathering change or alter the circumstances? He is not a stupid man, however, and realises that the whole purpose of the memorial is for those who knew the deceased to come together to comfort each other, to honor the life of the deceased.

Given any other circumstances, he would not be present at this gathering. In this instance, however ….

He watches John as he moves easily from one small group of mourners to the next, envying his doctor's seeming easy manner. From time to time, John glances back at Sherlock, meets his eyes, nods, then goes on to the next group.

Sherlock keeps his eyes on his Army doctor, as the trim figure in dark grey moves around the room. He knows it is doubtless inappropriate to think the thoughts he is thinking, particularly in this venue, but he cannot seem to help it. He's seen John Watson in a suit before, the doctor's same tired, ill-fitting suit that he wears to every formal occasion, usually when they are required to appear to testify in court, and yes, Sherlock has wanted to rip it off John, but for entirely different reasons. He wants to burn the bloody thing and never be subjected to seeing his doctor wear it again.

But this _– this is different._

John is dressed in dark charcoal, in a suit tailored for him alone, hideously expensive, worn over a white silk shirt that fits him like a second skin. If anything, he looks even trimmer than he looked earlier that morning at the crime scene, when he was dressed in slim jeans and the dark red shirt. The afternoon sun slants in from myriad windows, some of stained glass, and glances off John's bright head, picking out strands of blonde, dark blonde and white, creating aureoles of light around the doctor's head, luminous pools that bend and reflect golden light back at the viewer.

As he watches John, Sherlock makes the decision that he will come up with more reasons for John to wear that suit, less gut-wrenching reasons, of course. But the suit is not going into storage, only to see the light of day at the next funeral or wedding. Idly, he wonders if the suit is appropriate for their upcoming wedding. He would have to consult Mycroft as consulting Mummy is totally out of the question. Any conversation he has with his mother about his union to John would be pained in the extreme, as she has made it quite clear that any and all arrangements are to be left in her hands.

Sherlock wonders, not for the first time, what Mummy would do – hell, what all of his relations would do – if he simply took John away and had the union conducted in some, small, out of the way – _best not to speculate._ He goes back to watching John.

Whatever the detective expected, it is not this: the confident way John stops to speak with Mycroft's agents, all of them, but particularly Jake Lynn, Don Williams and Terry Roaman; the way his doctor shakes their hands, says something to each one, the way they nod their heads in agreement with whatever John has just said. It is a mark of how far John has come, in such a short period of time, that he is able to seemingly be in charge of this gathering without actually doing a thing. And to do so in a calm, even manner, seemingly utterly devoid of anxiety or tension. He suspects it is an act, but a good one.

Sherlock looks at Mycroft to see if his brother notes how his own men gather around John Watson, listen to his words, nod at what he has to say, follow him with their watchful eyes. Mycroft Holmes' gaze also follows John around the room, and for one brief moment, Sherlock's eyes narrow at what he feels is obviously inappropriate attention to his fiancée on his brother's part.

Then it hits him.

Agents Williams, Roaman and even Lynn, wounded as he is and in a wheelchair, watch John precisely because Mycroft has asked them to do so. Sherlock nods. It makes sense to him now. His brother knows of John's mental and emotional struggles, particularly after Enders' sacrifice. Mycroft knows that John 'went cold' and is no longer under any sort of medication for his reactions to the trace amounts of Frank's drug that remain in the doctor's bloodstream. He has set his men to watch over John during this gathering.

Sherlock glances at the way the men speak with John, the regard and respect they have for the former Army Captain, obvious to anyone who cares to look. The detective suspects that his brother did not have to, in fact, say a word to his men to watch out for John Watson. They would have done so at any rate.

He looks toward the corner where his brother Mycroft stands. The elder Holmes nods at something one of his men says, then glances over at Sherlock. The brothers stare at each other from across the room. Sherlock raises one eyebrow in summons. Mycroft says something to Anthea, then comes toward Sherlock.

Anthea stands next to Agent Lynn, one slim hand on the back of the agent's wheelchair, as if to lend her strength to the wounded man. Sherlock has no feelings for his brother's PA one way or the other, but notes the way that the enigmatic woman leans over to talk with Lynn, then straightens as she speaks first to John Watson, then the other of his brother's agents. He sees the way her dark eyes glance casually over the crowd. He has no doubt that she has noted and memorized the features of every single individual present.

Sherlock's eyes rake over Lynn's form, what he can see of it. He has obviously lost weight, nowhere near as much as John, but the weight loss and the dark shadows under his eyes are noticeable, even from a dozen yards away. His arm is wrapped and bound to his chest, obviously to keep his shoulder immobilized. His brown curls are bandaged. Other than the evidence of his injuries, he seems to be perfectly capable of speech and interaction. Sherlock's eyes close briefly in relief, then reopen as Mycroft comes to stand next to his younger brother.

Sherlock's insides feel strange and he frowns. He wants to go up to Lynn, say something, anything, but for the life of him cannot think of what to say that will not sound meaningless.

"Thanks for taking the bullets meant for me _?" Trite. Crass. Wrong._

"Agent Lynn, how are you feeling?" _Expected. Boring. Wrong._

"Agent Lynn, will you be able to shoot again, work again, is your life as you know it over? What will you do now _?" Wrong. Wrong. Wrong_.

_Sod it, why is this so difficult?_

" _Because John isn't here, standing next to me. Because John hasn't told me what to say, how to feel."_

The detective turns his head slightly to regard his brother, who now stands next to his side.

"I would think none of your men would be here, at least, not in these numbers," Sherlock says sotto voice.

Mycroft nods, as his eyes rake over the crowd. "Security is an issue and there are many who wished to attend but I could not, of course, sanction their presence. Too much could go wrong. To have this many of my people in one place, particularly now …" The elder Holmes' voice tapers off. Sherlock knows he refers to the security arrangements for the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and reflects that Mycroft's job is at the best of times, nightmarish.

He has no sympathy for Mycroft, however, and just wishes the entire thing over and done with so he can take John and leave.

Before he can say anything further, John is there at his side. Sherlock feels a rush of relief and hopes his doctor will remain with him through the rest of this apparently necessary but incredibly painful, social function. He looks down into John's face.

John Watson looks in his love's eyes, sees the torment and indecision, then follows Sherlock's gaze to the corner where Jake Lynn sits in his wheelchair, surrounded by his fellow agents, Anthea at his side. He turns back to the detective.

"Just tell the man what you feel, Sherlock," John says quietly. "It isn't rocket science."

"John, I –"

"Come on," John says. "I'll go with you."

Mycroft watches as his brother crosses over to speak with Agent Lynn, accompanied by John. Sherlock bends to speak with Jake Lynn, then extends his hand. The two men shake hands and he can see that Sherlock's entire demeanor seems to relax. Williams and Roaman stand next to them and engage the detective in conversation. John stands quietly by Sherlock's side.

Mycroft nods, once more appreciative of John Watson's presence, then he allows his gaze to return to sweeping over the crowd. He hears a quiet murmuring and turns to the open chapel doors. Lori Hansen and her fiancée, Joe Rodriguez, have just entered the chapel. Out of the corner of his eye, Mycroft notes that John sees them and begins to cross over to greet Ms. Hansen, but then the doctor seems to hesitate.

Mycroft looks from John back to the open doors and raises one eyebrow. He wonders how John and his clueless brother will handle this new situation

Anthony Hale, Rob Ender's fiancée, enters the chapel, accompanied by Ender's younger brother and his family, including his infant twin sons.

Mycroft sighs and walks over to them.

**OooOooO**

**5:00 pm**

**Baker Street**

Hours later, Sherlock sits in his chair at Baker Street and watches the love of his life pace back and forth. John is clearly agitated.

"Sherlock, _tell_ me you didn't just call Williams and Roaman and tell them I had to be in at a certain time, that I just got over – Christ, Sherlock. You did, didn't you? You called them!"

"I'm not certain why you're upset John. Clearly, I've overstepped –

"Overstepped! Sherlock you've trampled all over the so-called bounds. For fucks sakes! Just how old are you? No. Never mind. You know what? Just let it be."

Sherlock sits, fingers steepled under his chin. "I've upset you, John. I would like to point out that you have not just been ill. You have been incredibly ill, just barely recovered from –"

The doctor whirls back to him, his fists clenched by his side.

"Shut it, Sherlock. I bloody well know what I've just _barely_ recovered from. I was there, remember? And _upset_ , Sherlock? Yes. You can bloody well say that."

John continues to pace. Sherlock continues to watch.

His doctor stops pacing and stands in front of his chair. Looks down into the clear grey eyes.

"Why do you feel the need to do these things?"

Silence. "Might I remind you who you belong to?"

"Who I – fucking Christ, Sherlock. I'm a grown man. I don't 'belong' to anyone. Only to myself. Me."

John's hands clench by his side.

"We are in a relationship. Yes. I love you. And you love me. But that does not give you the right to order me around or to try to –"

"John, I was just –"

"Just what, Sherlock? Because I'd love to hear this. I'd love to know why a grown man thinks it's necessary to make it a point to tell other grown men that one of their number should be in at a certain time, like I'm your bloody kid or something."

His doctor runs one hand through his short hair. Which causes the ends to stand up.

"For fucks sakes, Sherlock. This – this has to stop. You have to dial it down just a bit."

John turns his back to his mad love and cannot see the look of utter devastation on Sherlock's face.

The doctor glances around their living area in frustration, then shakes his head. He storms upstairs to his old room. And slams the door behind him. Stares at the boxes of lab equipment. Stares at the new bed.

He expected pink and frills and god knows what else since they had clearly asked Mycroft to provide the bed for Lori's use.

For once, Mycroft /Anthea paid them no heed. A clearly nonsexual duvet covers the bed, green, no frills, no pink –John shudders – and nothing that screams feminine. Fine, then.

He tears the duvet off the bed, pulls back the sheets, toes out of his shoes and socks and drops the new suit trousers to the floor. Thinking it over, he crosses to the door and locks it. He rips through the buttons on the too tight, too silky shirt and tosses it all on the floor. Clad only in boxers, he throws himself down on the bed, on top of the plump sexless pillows and the new, genderless sheets, one arm flung over his eyes.

His first full day, nearly, of what can be termed "normal activity" - if the funeral of a good man can ever be considered normal – and he's exhausted. He accepted Williams and Roaman's offer of a drink, later that evening, but dear God he can use a bit of a kip.

John sets his watch alarm. Then turns on his side and hopes he can sleep, if even for a few minutes.

And mentally dares the detective to come knock at his door.

OooOooO

Sherlock does not come knock at his door.

Instead, the detective remains in his chair, hands clasped under his chin, and stares into space.

After a few minutes, he nods to himself and retrieves his mobile phone. He glances through the call list, then thumbs one of the numbers.

**OooOooO**

**VISION II**

**5:30 pm**

**Baker Street**

John is dreaming. If being trapped in nightmare can be called dreaming.

In John's nightmare, he lies on his back, half curled onto one side to protect as much of his body from the cold as he can. He can feel the impacted dirt under him, the extreme cold that seems to begin at his fingertips, where they attempt to dig into the ground under him, travels up his arms, right over the trauma of his right arm and the recent – break? No. Intense sprain? Yes. That is it. The cold travels across the back of his neck and the front of his throat.

His feet are bare, freezing. He can no longer feel his toes. The aching cold travels up his legs until it reaches his groin. The trousers he wears are torn in several places, jagged tears that correspond to the raw, seeping weals that arch and twine down his legs. The simple cotton shirt, button-down, two pockets, does nothing to protect his chest against the cold.

He shivers so badly he fears hypothermia. The intense cold fills his chest cavity each time he inhales and he finds himself attempting to breathe shallow – and not pass out from lack of oxygen.

His eyes are closed the better _not_ to see his surroundings. But it's no good. He knows exactly where he is. They've left him in one of the cells. The hanging door is open. A tiny slap in the face. He cannot, obviously, walk. Besides, he tugs slightly and pain shoots through his aching arm from the heavy metal band.

He's bound by the wrist. To one of those large coiled chains he saw earlier.

He hears footsteps, the sudden inhalation of breath, the muttered, "Oh Christ, we've found him," then the roaring in his head as the sentence is repeated, this time at the top of a very familiar voice.

"Watson! We've found him. Over here."

Then warm hands as someone's palm is placed against his forehead.

"Captain Watson? John? Come on, stay with us here. Terry, Mr. Holmes, over here, for fucks' sakes!"

And then a larger shadow falls across his face, blocking off the small amount of light – which comes from _where_? He remembers the tiny rectangular openings cut into the ceiling of each cell, or at least most of them. A few, he noted earlier, have no source of light and were clearly designed to leave the occupants in sheer darkness.

He wonders who is put in those cells and why.

A large palm slips under and lifts the back of his head and wonder of wonders, cool water drips into his mouth.

"John? John. It would behoove you to open your eyes."

At the familiar deep tones, not as deep as his husband's, and in a different timber, John opens his eyes. A slit. Then a bit more. He looks up at the second face he most wants to see in the universe.

"My- croft?"

The tones sound harsh, alien, and he recoils from his own voice.

"Excellent. He's aware. Yes, John, it's me. Careful now."

More cool water is tipped into his mouth, past his dry lips, down his parched throat. Nothing, nothing in John's life has tasted better than those few drops of cool water.

Mycroft's large palm holds the back of his head, lifting his skull from the hard ground.

Realisation pours over him and he jerkily lifts his left hand but is too tired and in too much pain to hold it up. He feels Mycroft's warm fingers grasp his.

His voice is desperate. _There isn't much time._

"They – took him," John gasps, and feels the long fingers tighten on his. To his side, someone is working on the chain around his right wrist. He groans when the metal is yanked too hard, jarring the injured arm.

"Sorry, Captain."

"Mycroft…they took him. He was screaming my name. I couldn't – get…I couldn't get to him. He was hurt. They took him away from me," John's voice trails off and he chokes on the pain that wells up from the depths of his being.

Mycroft Holmes stares down into John's blue eyes, his gaze stern. Beside him, John feels it as the heavy cold metal drops away from his wrist. At last. He sees Mycroft nod at someone out of the range of vision and feels a sharp pinch as something is injected under his skin. Too late, he attempts to wrest his arm away.

"No. NO! Mycroft, I don't want –"

Mycroft's steel grey eyes seem to spark in John's vision, as he slowly loses consciousness.

"They took him…away from me." he whispers, as the drug pulls him under.

"It's all right, John. Rest," his brother says. "I promise you, we are going to get him back."

In his dream, John feels the tears well up and spill over. *

**OooOooO**

John rolls over, swipes his eyes with his arm, then sits up, dismisses the nightmare, and sighs. He glances at his watch, then around the small room he used to call his. Suddenly, it seems cold, impersonal. Foreign.

He bends over, retrieves the expensive suit trappings and makes his way downstairs.

He ignores the silent figure who sits in the exact middle of the sofa, showers, then changes into his more familiar jeans, shirt and jumper. Finally, he comes back out to their living area and stands in front of Sherlock.

The detective tilts his head back and looks up into John Watson's dark gaze. He looks utterly miserable.

John nods once, then drops to his knees in front of Sherlock, and lays his head in the other man's lap. He wraps his warm hands around Sherlock's bony knees.

Roles reversed, Sherlock unhesitatingly begins to stroke through John's bright hair. He bends his head toward John's and waits for his doctor to say something.

John's voice is quiet, uncertain. "Tell me why you're like this. Tell me."

"There's nothing to tell, John."

"There is fucking all to tell, Sherlock Holmes. And I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. So tell me."

"You won't like it."

"I already don't like it. And please let me be the judge of that, 'kay?"

"All right." The detective hesitates. "You love me."

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, I do."

Beautiful musician's fingers comb through John's hair. John smiles. He sees now why Sherlock loves it so much when their roles are reversed. This feels heavenly.

Sherlock's voice is soft, deep. "And I love you."

"Hope so." John chuckles.

Silence. Sherlock's fingers jerk, then stop brushing through John's hair.

John glances up.

"No. No, don't look like that. I know you do. You've told me. And shown me a hundred different ways."

John reaches out and clasps the long clever fingers in his warm hand. The two men look at each other.

"John – I. These feelings. Sometimes I can't – I'm not certain how to tell you that –"

"Just tell me. I'm here, Love. Right here."

Sherlock looks into John's eyes, then drops his gaze. He shakes his head.

John smiles. He doesn't push him.

"Never mind then. Some things are better left to the imagination."

The whisper is small. "Not _these_ types of things."

"If you can't talk to me now, can you talk to me later, when you've time to think it over?"

Sherlock nods. "That would be helpful, John. At any rate, while you are out tonight, I can take the time to sort through and –"

John rises up and takes his love into his arms. He whispers into the dark hair.

"Sherlock Holmes, if you try to catalogue this, I swear…"

Sherlock shakes his head. His hands come up and clasp John's shoulders.

John sighs and continues to whisper into the dark hair.

"We're going to be fine. I'm going out now, for a little while. I need to do this, Sherlock, after the last week. I need this. To be with others who knew Rob Enders, better than I did. So I can understand why he – did what he did. I hope you understand that. But I'll be back. And when I come back, we're talking about all of this, okay?"

Sherlock nods again. "John, I need to tell you –"

"There isn't anything you can't tell me. But hush. Hush now."

"All right, John."

**OooOooO**

Anthea comes in, sets his hot tea, English Breakfast today, in front of him and sits down. She taps an elegantly manicured finger on her Blackberry, waits for him to sip and nod, then set the mug aside.

Once she has his attention, she smiles.

And begins to speak.

As Anthea talks, Mycroft Holmes begins to smile. Just a bit.

It's more than she hoped for.

He nods.

"I'll tell her tomorrow."

She beams. And sips her own cup of Chai.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock paces their flat. He does not even begin _not_ to think of John and what he is doing with Mycroft's agents. And Rob Enders' fiancée. The social niceties might be a bit of a mystery to Sherlock, but he does realize, upon reflection, why it was important to John to accompany the agents to – wherever they were going. Sherlock assumes it's some sort of drinking / bonding party.

He can understand that.

But if this is some sort of male bonding thing – then why was Ms. Hansen invited? For gods sakes, even Agent Lynn went along and the man's in a wheelchair.

But that doesn't keep him from pacing the floor. Under normal circumstances, he would clean his bow, then practice violin scales until Mrs. Hudson knocked at the door of their flat, begging him to stop so she could sleep. These are not normal circumstances. His Strad is destroyed. He assumes beyond repair as Mycroft never mentions it and he purposefully does not bring it up.

The Stradivarius was insured, Sherlock is aware. So sooner or later, he assumes that he will have the wherewithal to purchase another violin. But it won't be _his_ Stradivarius and for this reason, and this reason alone, he feels like picking up the skull and throwing it through the flat screen TV that was installed in the same location as the first one.

He could not care less about telly, although John seems to like it. But his Stradivarius - He stops pacing long enough to stare out the window at Baker Street below and wonder, once again, when John will be home and what he has been up to. All the time he stands at their window, his left hand fingers violin pieces against his trouser leg.

_Where in bloody hell is John?_

Five times he types a text to John, nothing too demanding, nothing strident, just a carefully worded "Where in the bloody hell are you and when in the bloody hell do you think you might be home?" – then deletes the texts. The sixth time, he hits SEND, and immediately regrets it.

No matter. He never gets a reply text.

For this reason alone, Sherlock stops pacing and decides to catch a taxi and attempt to locate John, wherever he has gone, when he hears footsteps on the stairs. A quickly mumbled greeting and response to Mrs. Hudson, who must have also been worried and on the lookout for the doctor, and John's steps on the stair.

Sherlock stands in the middle of their living area when John comes in. And at the sight of a slightly disheveled, very tired John, his eyes narrow. Fools. Don't they realize this is the man's first night out – read first night out without Sherlock – and that he has been kidnapped and drugged and shot for fucks' sakes and they should have had him in by a decent hour.

All of which he doesn't give a rat's arse for, as John comes into the flat, looks at the detective, then shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it at his chair. The jacket falls slowly onto the carpet and neither man moves to retrieve it.

John runs a hand through his blonde hair and goes into the kitchen. Sherlock stands and watches as his doctor prepares the obligatory cup of tea. He turns and holds up an extra mug. Sherlock shakes his head.

John sighs, brings his tea into their living area, glances at his chair, then deliberately moves over to sit on one end of their sofa. He sets the steaming mug down on the coffee table in front of him, then leans back and regards the detective.

His voice, when it comes, is tired beyond belief.

"It was horrible and necessary and I'm damn glad I went. But I can't talk about it now, okay?"

Sherlock nods mutely. John stares at the detective.

"Come here."

Sherlock raises an iconic dark eyebrow.

John looks at Sherlock and cocks a blonde eyebrow. He clears his throat. The next word is less of a request and more of a demand.

"Now."

His detective rather languidly strolls up to him and stands there, looking down. It is a toss-up as to which pair of eyebrows achieves the highest arc. Sherlock's wins – but it's a near thing.

John leans back slightly against the sofa cushions, toes off his shoes and very slightly spreads his legs. Without taking his blue eyes off Sherlock, he reaches out with his left hand and grabs the closest pillow, covers his lap, then pats it with his right hand.

Sherlock grins. He toes off his shoes, then just flops down on the sofa, his head in John's lap, nicely snuggled in the exact center of the pillow. Sherlock's head is heavy. And he flops.

Hard.

"Oof. Watch it, you gangly oaf."

John gets his breath back, then just watches as his love wiggles slightly, gets comfortable, then settles down with a sigh. He glances up at John, smiles and shuts his eyes. His hands, ever restless, now lie quiet, content, in the middle of his stomach and his fingers, tap ever so slightly against his shirt.

The purple shirt.

The tight one.

The one with the tiny buttons that if John's sturdy fingers just ever so slightly nudge – oh, look – they pop open.

John allows a finger to nudge one small button. Sherlock says nothing. But he smirks.

The same finger nudges the next button down. The smirk gets a bid wider.

Nudge. Button. Smirk

"John?"

Marble chest exposed, John considers the lovely sight for a moment, hums, as his left hand insinuates itself between the two bits of fabric and begins to stroke, idly, along Sherlock's chest. Lightly, so lightly, he drags a nail across the pale skin. And watches, fascinated, as goose bumps, er bump each other in the race to be first under John's fingertip.

Left hand occupied, John's jealous right hand wanders through the dark mass of his love's hair, selects one errant curl, tugs it upward, then John watches as it spirals back on itself and tumbles back to Sherlock's brow.

"John?"

"Yes, love of my life?"

"I – oh, really?"...(more smirking….) " I mean, John?"

"Yes, bane of my existence?"

"Oh. I liked the first one best."

"Know it. Don't care."

John's clever hand begins to sift the dark curls, lift, watch as they corkscrew back on themselves, fall gracefully, then sifts again.

Sherlock, who adores being petted, just smirks and temporarily loses his train of thought. If that is possible for a Holmes. Perhaps it just got derailed?

"John? I was going to ask you something…drat!"

Sift. Lift. Corkscrew. Fall.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"The funeral … Rob Enders' funeral this afternoon."

John's hand barely hesitates, then begins to stroke him again.

"What about it?"

"John – I ….drat it."

"Just try," his Army doctor says quietly. He continues to tug, then release the dark curls.

"John – no funeral. Not for me. Not like that."

The barest of hesitations again, then – "Why?"

"Don't know. All those people, those emotions. Most of them didn't want to be there."

John sighs and thinks this over before he replies. It's always best to go slow with Sherlock, to feel your way.

"Sherlock, I can guarantee you that none of those people wanted to be there today."

"John, I know that. Not what I meant. It's just that, I couldn't – oh sod it. Never mind. Immaterial. Do what you will. Or, rather, I imagine Mycroft will do what he will. Doubt if you'll have much say in it."

John's left hand leaves off rubbing the white chest. He keeps it there, though, to keep Sherlock's chest warm.

"Sherlock Holmes? Correct me if I'm wrong, but we are about to be joined in what I believe is popularly referred to as Holy Matrimony?

"Yes, John."

"Thought so. Am I then correct in making the assumption that anything that touches you or your person, in any way, shape or fashion, would henceforth be my bailiwick and not your brother's?"

"Yes, John. You're right. My error."

"Well, then?"

"John –?"

"Hmm?" John's clever hands continue to stroke through the dark curls. He waits.

"I'm not used to having anyone _care_. Other than Mycroft. I guess it's force of habit."

"Okay."

John thinks for a moment, and despite the nature of the conversation, his left hand goes back to stroking along the skin under his fingertips. Sherlock squirms slightly. His light eyes stare up into John's and John can see that the pupils are enlarging.

Good.

"And why doesn't your Mum – Regina Holmes – come into that statement?"

"John, I really, truly do not want to discuss my mother at this time, particularly not in this context."

John's hand stops stroking through the dark curls and he looks down into the pale grey-green eyes.

"Okay. I'm all for _not_ discussing funerals – or funeral arrangements – or mothers – or future brothers-in-law. Works for me."

He bends to kiss the soft lips in front of him. Sherlock does not seem to object to the subject being drastically changed. The detective shows his enthusiasm in the most charming of ways.

John pulls back, reluctantly. "In that instance, I can think of any manner of things we could be discussing or doing."

"Doctor Watson, you surprise me. To what things do you refer?"

John grins into the grey eyes, gone nearly all green now, and at the pupils, definitely darker and enlarging by the second.

"Let me tell you. No. I forget you are a hands-on type of person, Mr. Holmes. Let me personally demonstrate to you."

"All right, Doctor Watson. If you insist."

"Budge over. I'm coming down."

"And Sherlock?"

The detective quickly rearranges his person to accommodate John's lean body next to him on the sofa.

"Yes, John?"

"We need cases. I need – to be kept busy for now. Nothing is too small or menial. Not until I - we get back into the swing of things. Got that?"

"Yes, John."

"Okay then. Budge over."

**OooOooO**

John experiences the next few days as a whirlwind of chasing after Sherlock, flagging down taxis, sending and receiving texts, cups of tea, none of them truly satisfying or very well-made, various meals at odd hours, including one truly delicious one at Angelo's and the rest so-so, hurried things, caught on the run, falling asleep in his chair or together on the sofa, spooned back to front with Sherlock, sleeping – and not much of anything else - and he's just fine with it. For now.

John can't shake the disoriented feeling he has particularly when he re-enters the flat and wonders if it's a byproduct of finally being drug-free. He decides to give himself these next few days before he calls Maggie Oakton.

**OooOooO**

They chase the thief into the local Tesco and Sherlock snatches him by the collar, whirls him round into John, who lays him out with one neat clip to the jaw. The perp goes down and lies there, propped on one elbow, groaning. Sherlock thumbs his phone and calls Dimmock and his men to the scene, then drops his mobile into his pocket. He glances around and raises one eyebrow.

"John, what is this paraphernalia?"

John looks from the thief - who has managed to sit up with his back against a counter, one hand still holding his jaw – to Sherlock and then at what has his love enthralled.

"It's a chip and pin machine, Sherlock," he says, arms crossed over his chest. He goes back to watching the thief, dark blue eyes narrow, daring the man to move.

Sherlock's eyes light up. Thief forgotten, he looks the self-checkout machine up and down, purses his lips, then glances around at the other shoppers, who have all moved back out of their way, wondering what is going to happen next. Finally, he nods and crosses over to a young woman, who has one little boy by the hand. She hastily pushes her son behind her and lifts her chin, not certain what the tall, dark-haired wild man wants.

Sherlock reaches out a hand to her cart. "May I?" he asks. Eyes wide, she backs away from her cart and mutely nods. Sherlock snatches a can out of her cart, _beans, baked, vegetarian_ , then comes back to the machine. He looks down at the transparent glass that covers the scanner, turns the can of beans over in his hands until he finds the bar code, then swipes the can over the scanner. At the beep, he glances up to see the record of the transaction on the screen in front of him.

John glances over at him. Sherlock appears enthralled. He frowns.

"Sherlock, you've shopped before. You know very well what these are."

"I vaguely recall noticing them, John, and you've mentioned them, of course. But no, John, I've never used one before. You do most of the shopping, remember?"

John looks down at the perp, who has dropped his hand from his jaw and just sits there staring up at both of them. John looks back at his curly-haired love.

"Sherlock, there is no way in hell that you haven't used one of these," John says, his tone disbelieving.

Sherlock takes the can of beans in his left hand, hands it over to his right, then crosses it over the scanner again, and watches as the transaction adds up the can of beans for the second time.

"Wrong," he mutters. "It should recognize that the same can has been rung up twice and prevent a duplicate sale."

He begins to fiddle with the can, passing it back and forth over the glass scanner. Sale after sale rings up. The store manager, over his first fright at the rather violent intrusion, clears his throat and begins to straighten his tie. Any minute, John thinks, he will come over and then he and the detective will be in for a welter of explanations.

John looks back down at the perp, who is clearly feeling better, as he now sits up, both hands splayed on the floor beside him. John registers the sound of police sirens coming closer. Good. Another few minutes and they can get the bloody hell out of here. He notices the store manager as he inches closer.

John looks from Sherlock, who acts like a kid with a new toy at Christmas, then back down to the thief. The man's head marginally moves and John's head turns to follow his line of sight. Right. Sherlock wears the short jacket today and the back of his bum, his elegantly trousered bum, is neatly presented to both of them as he bends over and fiddles with the chip and pin machine. John's blue eyes narrow. He looks back down at the thief and addresses him quietly, his voice darkly menacing.

"You might want to keep your eyes to yourself," John warns. His right hand clenches by his side. The thief's head whirls up, his eyes lock with John's and he nods, drops his head back down to look at the tiled floor between his knees.

"Good." John re-crosses his arms over his chest. "Sherlock, stop messing with that thing. I can hear a panda car. It's nearly here."

"All right, John. Just a moment. This thing is defective. It can definitely be improved upon, if I can just…" Sherlock's voice trails off and he roots in his pockets, frowns.

Without turning around, he holds out one hand. "John, I need your notebook and pen."

John sighs and fishes both items out of his pocket, all the while not taking his eyes off the perpetrator, who sits back now, and looks from one man to the other, his eyes narrow. He slaps the notebook into Sherlock's outstretched hand. The detective nods his thanks, flips open the book and begins to scribble furiously.

John goes back to watching the thief who sits on the floor a few feet in front of them, or rather, in front of John and behind Sherlock. His blue eyes bore into the man's dark eyes. The thief swallows, but doesn't take his eyes off John.

John momentarily relinquishes the staring contest and glances over as the local police come into the store. "Sherlock," he warns.

"Nearly done here, John," his love mutters, still scribbling.

"Now then, what's all this?"

The two police officers cross over to them, eyes narrowed, one of them still talking on his phone. The store manager comes forward, clearing his throat. Sherlock, satisfied with his notes, drops both notepad and pen in his pocket and begins to turn and John glances up at Sherlock. At the exact same time, the thief lunges up and catches John around his knees. John curses and both men go down, John underneath, the Browning under him.

In a second, John is on his back, grappling with the perpetrator, who has at least a stone or more on him. The police rush forward, and Sherlock, eyes wide, reaches behind him and grabs the first thing that comes to hand – the abandoned can of beans – _baked, vegetarian_.

"John –"

John, who is having problems breathing with the man's hands around his neck, manages to gasp out, "Do it!"

And Sherlock –with all his strength behind it - swings one arm forward and clips the thief over the back of the skull with the can, neatly laying the man out on the floor.

"Okay, drop that and stand back," one of the officers warn. Uncertain who the officer is speaking to, Sherlock drops it and leans over to extend a hand to John.

The doctor comes to his feet, still rubbing at his throat. He nods his thanks at Sherlock, then turns his attention to the second officer, who now stands in front of both of them. The first one already has the thief handcuffed and face down on the floor. The man groans and begins to curse.

The officer opens his mouth but before he can say a word, "That's all right, officer. These men work for us."

John's head swivels as D.I. Dimmock walks toward them, shaking his head at the scene.

"Like bloody hell we do," Sherlock mutters to his side. John, who can't trust his voice yet, just groans slightly.

Another damn report. Will this day never end?

When they are finally allowed to leave, John glances back and sees Dimmock standing there, the can of beans in his hand, an odd expression on his face.

**OooOooO**

"Truly, son, I don't know why these churches have to adopt such an attitude. You'd think this wedding was a run of the mill type thing, something they see every day. You would think that the wedding of a Viscount to a bona fide war hero would be cause enough to –"

Mycroft thinks quickly. "Mummy? Is there any chance that you were turned down because Sherlock and John are two males?"

Silence.

"Mycroft, that would just be disgusting. Besides, the law states –"

Mycroft, who helped draft the law, just sighs. "Yes, Mummy. I agree. But I still have to inquire - "

"I can't even begin to – No. Certainly not. It must be a mix-up in dates. They obviously have a prior commitment and we simply have to change our date, that's all."

Mycroft rubs one long-fingered hand between his eyes. Now for it.

"Mummy? My schedule is unbelievably full and I would like to suggest –"

"This had better be good, Mycroft Holmes."

"What I was about to suggest is: my PA's assistant has some free time. And she has agreed to put herself at your disposal for the duration of this period."

"And by period you mean –"

"For the duration of time it takes in order to get Sherlock and John properly married, Mummy."

He listens. His mother thinks.

"Son?"

"Yes, Mummy?"

" _If she says No to this, there's always the Thames. If I put enough rocks in my pockets, they won't be able to find the body immediately. No chance for resuscitation."_

"Son. That might be a viable solution. By 'entirely at my disposal' you, of course mean –"

"I mean, Mummy, that Deborah has agreed to be entirely at your disposal, to act as your personal wedding planner secretary, until this project comes to fruition."

"All right, Mycroft. That sounds lovely."

"You mean you agree?"

"Yes, son. I think that's a wonderful plan. Very astute of you, by the way."

"It wasn't my idea. Anthea – "

"No. That would be perfect. Please make certain she packs appropriately. We quite often have formal dinners here and I wouldn't want the girl to feel that she is under dressed."

" _Woman,_ Mother, not 'girl.' And what do you mean pack appropriately? For heaven's sakes, Mummy, I'm not suggesting you adopt Deborah! I'm just saying that—"

"No. No, Mycroft. You have had a perfectly splendid and workable idea. Please tell her to be ready in three hours. We will pick her up at 5:01 pm sharp, outside your building. And do make certain she has all her own toiletries and personal –"

"Mummy! Deborah is not expecting to move in with you and I do not intend to ask her to—"

"Don't be ridiculous. Of course, she is. How else can I have her here when I need her? There'll be plenty to do and I intend to get an early start, this evening if at all possible."

"Mummy – "

"That is all Mycroft. And thank you for coming up with such a lovely solution."

"Mummy."

She hangs up. Mycroft stares at his mobile for a full five seconds before he realizes she has rung off.

No union is worth this. He wonders how fast he can convince Sherlock to take his wretched Army doctor, and just elope. Perhaps they could be persuaded to leave the country for a short time while her fervor blows over _?_

_What in the fuck is he thinking? Of course, it's not going to just 'blow over.'_

But leaving the country doesn't sound half bad. His passport is in his desk. Italy? Spain? Perhaps further. Damn it, the Korea report is due in a few hours. He has agents to pull in from Syria. How soon before anyone notices he's gone? Can Anthea be bribed?

 _What the_ fuck _is he thinking?_

Anthea sits in her chair in front of Mycroft, busily tapping into her Blackberry. She raises one elegant eyebrow as Mycroft finishes speaking with Mrs. Holmes, then looks up at him as he hangs up and carefully sets his mobile to the left of his leather desk blotter.

"Trouble in paradise?" she inquires sweetly.

Mycroft stares at her.

**OooOooO**

They're in Guildford on a case that involves human trafficking. Sherlock tracks the suspected leader to an abandoned warehouse and they soon have him cornered. John is incensed enough he punches the man in the jaw. They call Lestrade, who tells them to call D.I. Dimmock.

Later, Sherlock makes the doctor sit still while he cleans and bandages the red abrasion across John's knuckles.

John hisses when Sherlock applies the alcohol. The detective sprays a local anesthetic across the skin and John nods. "No need for bandages. They won't stay anyway."

Sherlock finishes, then sits back and looks at John quizzically. "Was it worth it?" he asks quietly.

"Imminently," John says.

The detective nods.

**OooOooO**

They're in Lansing, chasing down an embezzler. Sherlock roots him out in seven hours flat, a new record. But not before the man strikes out, hitting Sherlock a glancing blow along his temple. The detective goes down, momentarily stunned.

"Sherlock!"

Incensed, John strikes the perp across the cheekbone, splitting it and reopening his own skinned knuckles. He handcuffs him and leaves him lying on the ground while he tends to Sherlock, whose line of stitches has been reopened. Sherlock is basically unharmed, just dizzy. They doctor each other up back at Baker Street, after bleeding all over the seat cushions of the taxi. Sherlock leaves an enormous tip to compensate, which nearly causes John to hyperventilate. Later, they celebrate with dinner at Angelo's and sex on the new sofa.

John is rapidly becoming quite fond of the new sofa.

**OooOooO**

They're in Tunbridge Wells and the child molester (three neighborhood children and his own ten-year old nephew) is found hiding in a closet in his own flat. When Sherlock throws open the closet door, John draws down on the miserable excuse for a human. No need. The cowardly molester huddles in on himself, begging them not to harm him.

John's childhood passes in front of his eyes in seconds flat. He can barely hear over the roaring in his ears and very deliberately hands off the Browning to Sherlock. The detective takes the gun without a word, stands back and watches as John yanks the man off the floor by his shirt collar and punches him in the jaw - twice. The perp goes down the second time screaming bloody murder. Sherlock quietly hands the Browning back to John, who slips it back into the waistband of his jeans and shrugs his shirt back down over it.

Sherlock handcuffs the man, whose mouth is streaming blood and lets John haul him out to the curb, where the panda car is just pulling up to the block of flats.

The monster tries to press charges against John, charging the doctor 'hit him in the face and broke his jaw." The local Police Sergeant takes one look at the man's face, nods curtly at John, who stands there, arms crossed over his chest of his jumper, hiding his again skinned knuckles against his jumper, trying – and succeeding – to look basically harmless. The officer turns back to the criminal.

"I don't see anything, Sir. Not certain what damage you're referring to." And goes about booking him.

Sherlock and John leave without a word. In the taxi on the way to Baker Street, John is abnormally quiet. Sherlock doesn't push him.

Back home, John paces. Sherlock watches him, then goes to change into his flannels and the ratty grey tee. Back in their living area, he lies on the sofa, his dark head propped up on two pillows and looks up at John. It doesn't take a consulting detective to realise that the two cases, the one involving human trafficking and their latest, involving the child molester, have dredged up memories from John's horrific childhood.  He raises one eyebrow. John toes out of his shoes and socks, kicks his jeans across the floor. Sherlock holds open his arms and his doctor collapses onto the detective.

He lies on top of Sherlock, stretched out his full length, in his tee shirt and boxers, his head turned so his left cheek rests on the detective's chest. Sherlock yanks the afghan off the back of the sofa with his right hand and manages to cover them over with it. Despite John's weight, far more negligible than before, he is quite comfortable. His left hand holds onto his soldier, his arm around John and his hand splayed across John's warm back.

His right bends around John's head and strokes through the blonde locks.

"Tell me," he asks. That's all. He knows John has never been ready to discuss his horrid childhood and Sherlock has never pressed. Other than to regret the fact that John's sorry excuse for a male parent isn't still alive. Sherlock so very much wants to murder the man. But dead is dead.

At first John says nothing. They lie like that and Sherlock wonders if the doctor is drifting off to sleep.

Then - "I was six when he hit me for the first time," John murmurs.

Sherlock lets his breath out slowly. He says nothing but his hand continues to stroke through John's hair. Lift the strands, sift them through his fingers, lets them fall back to John's skull.

_Lift. Sift. Repeat._

"I can't even remember why he did it. Must have done something to set him off. Been a bit slow about something. Can't remember. Thought about it a few times over the years."

_Lift. Sift. Repeat._

"I was eight when he broke my wrist. He did it slow. Took his time about it."

_Lift. Sift. Repeat. Breathe slowly to squelch murderous impulses._

"I was eleven when he knocked me into the wall of the flat. I – don't remember a whole lot about that. Just waking up on my bed. And Harry kneeling next to me, wiping my face with a cloth and crying. That was the first time I realized I could just – go away."

_Lift. Sift. Repeat. Hold questions until later._

"I was 14 when it all came to an end, sort of. Ended up in hospital from that beating. That was when someone finally noticed what was going on. Harry and I were sent to our aunt's to live. I remember thinking that if Da were still alive, he woulda done something about it. You know that my grandfather was a doctor and a soldier? In Afghanistan, of all places. He left me his Gladstone bag. I had it for two years. Before Dad got drunk one night and – " John's voice trails off. He never does tell Sherlock what his Dad did to his Grandfather's medical bag.

A pang shoots through the detective but he says nothing. He continues to stroke John.

"It was all I had of him, except a few photos. And his stethoscope. I hid the pictures and gave the stethoscope to my best friend to hold for me. I didn't have any really good hiding places, no loose boards or hidden cubbies, that sort of thing. And he used to go through Harry's stuff pretty regularly, so no joy there. I gave it to Dave for safe keeping. He kept it for me, until Dad died. Then he gave it back. I remember thinking how strange to sit on my bed and hold my grandfather's stethoscope and be more concerned over that then I was over my own father's death."

His voice slowly trails off.

Sherlock bends his head and plants kisses in John's bright hair. His hands tighten over John's back, but he says nothing. Anything he says at this point would be trite.

John falls asleep first. Sherlock lies awake for a very long time, stroking John's hair, planning 43 different ways to murder John's father, given half the chance. Eventually, he, too, sleeps.

They fall asleep on the sofa, wrapped up in each other.

**OooOooO**

They're in Basingstoke where Sherlock has tracked a hijacked truckload of faked Egyptian artifacts. The investigation takes longer than they both thought and Sherlock engages them a hotel room. The second day, Sherlock speaks with the museum director, deduces it's the director's wife who is involved in the scam and they both go to the local station to make their report.

John feels the faint tremors begin while Sherlock, finished with the local police, reels off his deductions over his mobile to D.I. Dimmock. The doctor's eyes widen and he quietly excuses himself, not even certain the detective has heard him. Sherlock breaks off mid-rant, and watches John as he hurriedly makes his way down the hall.

"Mr. Holmes?" D.I. Dimmock says.

"I'll call you back in a few minutes, Inspector," Sherlock hangs up and follows John.

"That's Detective Inspector," Dimmock says, but the detective has already hung up.

John lets the door close behind him, then crosses to a sink and washes his hands. He reaches for a towel to wipe his face but the tremors increase and he groans, drops his hand, finally leans against the wall and slides down to sit on the cold tile floor. At least the restroom is clean, remarkably so. Either way, he can't be arsed to care. He pulls his knees to his chest, crosses his arms over the top and rests his head on his crossed arms.

Sweat begins to pour down the sides of his face.

" _I'm damn tired_ ," John thinks. _"Must be getting old or something_."

Less than a minute later, the door opens. He does not look up, but keeps his head ducked into his arms. He knows Sherlock has followed him. John hears the sound of paper towels being ripped off and water running. A few seconds later, Sherlock plops down on the floor next to him and says quietly, "John."

John raises his head slightly to look the detective in the eyes. He can't trust himself to speak at the moment. The detective sponges his face with the damp towel and John nods his thanks. Sherlock tosses the damp towel at the bin, misses, then puts one long arm around John's shoulders and pulls the doctor gently to him. John leans his head against Sherlock's shoulder. The two men sit like that while the tremors reach their peak, then slowly begin to subside.

After a few moments, "How is it now?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"Better," John says, just as quietly. But he makes no move to get up off the floor. Not yet. Another minute or two pass. John hopes no one else comes in. But he can't be arsed about that, either. If someone comes in, they'll be treated to the sight of two adult males, hugging each other on the loo floor. John mentally shrugs.

"Done with your report?" John asks. Sherlock's left hand strokes through his Army doctor's blonde hair.

"Nearly. Dimmock wants both our statements. I told him he can make do with mine or lump it. I'm calling him back shortly." Sherlock turns his head and plants a kiss along John's damp hairline.

"Hmm, okay then." John sighs and shuts his eyes. The tremors have ceased and he relaxes into the other man's touch.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I want you to go back to the hotel. I can handle this. Get some rest before we have to go home later tonight."

Sherlock turns his head to look at John's face, gone pale under the fluorescent lights overhead.

"Will you do that for me?" he asks hopefully, fully expecting John to protest.

To his surprise, and gratitude, John nods. "Yeah. Okay."

"Good." Sherlock gets to his feet and reaches a hand down to the doctor. Both men stand and regard each other. Sherlock smoothes John's hair back from his eyes.

"Get a taxi. I'll be along once I – "

"I can walk," John says determinedly. "I need to walk. It's only a couple of blocks, Sherlock. Don't fuss."

Sherlock goes back to call Dimmock.

John walks slowly down the street, toward their hotel. He feels much better, just a bit tired. He's deep in thought about the case they just cracked, when he comes level with the small music shop. He glances in the window.

John stops. And stares.

The violin sits on a velvet backdrop, its bow beside it. The hand-rubbed surface gleams in the afternoon light. He glances at the small card in front of it that lists the price. His eyes widen and he pulls out his bank card. Looks again at the violin. He pulls out his mobile, and his eyes narrow as he thinks this through.

Finally, he holds his phone up, snaps a quick photo of the violin and sends a quick text.

**Do I have any money?**

**JW**

His mobile rings almost immediately.

"Is there a problem, John?"

_For fucks sakes, does the man ever sleep?_

"No problem Mycroft. We're here in Basingstoke at a crime scene."

"I'm aware, John."

Silence.

"Mycroft, Moriarty is dead. As is Moran. May I ask why –"

"A threat remains, John. It's viable. And it remains to be determined if the two of you are, in fact, safe. So yes, the 'inconvenient surveillance' – as my brother puts it – continues."

"Adair. Moriarty's successor. Sherlock mentioned him. He's the one who sent the assassins to the mansion."

"Yes, John, that is correct. Although I believe the individual in question is more interested in my brother's whereabouts than he is in yours. The man has gone to ground and is no longer believed to be in Switzerland. However, since the two of you are not long parted –"

"Yes, all right, Mycroft. You've made your point."

John takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair. " _Shite, hell and damn. Does it never end?"_

John glances down the street. No sign – yet – of Sherlock.

"Should I be worried about Sherlock?"

Slight pause.

"I worry about him constantly, John. But the immediate answer is No. We are keeping close tabs on arrivals and departures within the U.K."

John shuts his eyes momentarily. He reopens them and stares in the window.

"There's a violin here in the window. I – want it for Sherlock."

John does not bring up their looming anniversary. He doubts if Mycroft Holmes, or any Holmes, for that matter, would even understand the sentiment involved.

Mindful of the Guarneri that he and Mummy have purchased for Sherlock, Mycroft taps one manicured fingertip on his phone as he looks at the small photo John has sent him. Impossible to tell if the instrument is in decent shape. Most probably, for that price, it is a student violin being resold. Or the product of an estate sale.

He looks at the tiny picture. Actually, it might be good for Sherlock to learn how the other half lives. He doubts highly if John has managed to discover a treasure in Basingstoke but suspects the violin might be a serviceable, albeit poor substitute for the demolished Stradivarius.

He and Mummy have no intention of handing the Guarneri over to Sherlock until his brother has successfully demonstrated he can still play. But his brother's physical therapist is now lined up and he will undoubtedly insist that Sherlock be able to practice.

Yes, this might do nicely.

These thoughts run through Mycroft's mind in less than two seconds flat. He answers the man's question.

"Yes, John. In fact, Sherlock has long since arranged for a trust fund in your name. You have available cash to you at any time. Hence the card in your wallet."

"A trust fund. In my name."

"Yes, John."

"Where did Sherlock get – Never mind. Mycroft, I don't want Sherlock's money. Or yours. I have my own savings. Granted, not much but I am – was - a doctor, damn it, and I've never been a spendthrift."

"Use the card John. And if you insist, we'll deduct the appropriate amount from your savings account. Is he – all right?"

"Bit of a headache after yesterday, but yeah, he's fine. We both are."

"Good John. That's good."

John buys the violin. And the case and bow, although he's aware Sherlock will need a much better bow than the one that comes with the instrument. But it will do for the moment. He arranges to have it delivered at the end of the week, just in time for their anniversary.

As he leaves the shop, he begins to feel more human. He makes his way to the hotel, showers, then sits on the edge of the bed and waits for Sherlock to come collect him.

**OooOooO**

The suspect jerks open the back door of a dance club and disappears inside. Unhesitatingly, Sherlock follows. Just inside, he pauses to allow his eyes to adjust to the near darkness . He hears the quick intake of breath, and instinctively ducks just as a hand grasping an impossibly large spanner comes crashing down where his skull was seconds earlier. Sherlock overbalances and goes down with a muttered oath. The man is on him in seconds flat, his hands around the detective's throat. Or rather, around the dark blue scarf.

"Get your fucking hands off my boyfriend!"

John crashes into the suspect, knocking him off Sherlock. The man, little more than a teen really, goes down, hard. John is on him in a second, and while Sherlock struggles to get his breath back, he watches as his soldier straddles the suspect, grabs a handful of unkempt dark hair, and slams his head into the hard floor. Twice.

John comes to his feet, extends a hand and pulls Sherlock to his feet. His hands are all over the detective's body, head, hands. He unwinds the scarf, stuffs it into Sherlock's coat pocket, then uses a mini torch to examine the pale neck. Finally, he makes the man duck his head so John can examine the – nearly – healed line of stitches along the back of his skull.

"John, I'm okay. Just got – the wind knocked out of me."

John nods. But he turns his head to regard the suspect, out cold at their feet. His eyes narrow. His blood roars in his veins. He turns back to Sherlock.

"Are you sure you're –"

"Just give me a second. I'm fine." Truth be told, he's still rattled from John's shout of "boyfriend."

He pulls his mobile out of the pocket of the short jacket and begins to thumb Dimmock's number. There is absolutely no use in calling Lestrade as the D.I. has refused to speak with them for the entire week.

"Here." John takes the mobile from his hands, makes the call, then hands the phone back to Sherlock.

Behind them, over them, around them, the current track continues. Sherlock glances around and realises they must be back stage. They are not in a very expensive part of town and the club certainly isn't high end. The music is obviously canned and not live. But what it lacks in class, it makes up for in sound. The music is near deafening.

John bends, grabs their suspect by a leg and quickly tugs the man to where he lies just inside the back door, easily discovered. He yanks the suspect's hands behind him, produces a pair of handcuffs, cuffs the man by the wrists.

He goes back to Sherlock. The two men have to raise their voices to be heard.

"Security –" John starts to say.

"Is nowhere to be seen, apparently," Sherlock says. "No matter. Even Dimmock's men can find him here. We'll be able to leave shortly."

The current song changes. A new track begins. When it does, the tempo changes, drastically. It starts out loud and gets louder, the drum beat near deafening in intensity. Something about the song is vaguely familiar to the detective. The beat is dark, relentless. Driving.

John's head whips up. He moves away from Sherlock. Sherlock glances at his mobile, then drops it in the pocket of the short jacket.

"John?"

Sherlock looks around for John, his eyes fully adjusted to the dark of the night club now. Tiny recessed lights in the ceiling allow him to just see in the dark of the back stage area.

The intro, an impossibly long driving drum beat, continues. He begins to experience the relentless beat as a hypnotic rhythm that seems to echo through his ribcage.

"Sherlock," John says in a voice the detective - _nearly_ \- doesn't recognize.

Sherlock turns his head to find his Army doctor, who now stands near the front of what would be center stage, that is, if they were to simply swipe the heavy curtains aside.

John's eyes are wide. He stares at the other man, his bright head tilted to one side.

"Come here," he says.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. What on earth is wrong with his Army doctor?

"John?"

"I said 'Come here,'" John repeats, in his _take no prisoners_ voice. At the same time, he moves to stand in front of the detective. His right arm snakes around Sherlock's waist and his warm palm presses – urgent – hot - against the detective's lower back. John jerks his arm, pulling the other man's body closer to his.

Sherlock's eyes widen as he is pulled against John's taut body.

 _I don't know why I love you like I do_ _  
All the changes you put me through_ __  
Take my money, my cigarettes  
I haven't seen the worst of it yet

Sherlock hears the deep drumbeat as it pounds the walls, vibrates through the floor under their feet. Obviously there are speakers all around them. Doubtless the dance floor is now full of writhing couples.

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water_

"John?"

"Hush."

John's eyes, unfathomably dark, appear as shadows in his face. He tilts his head and looks up into Sherlock's eyes. All the while he keeps his eyes on the other man's pale ones, John slowly begins to dip and bend. John presses his body against Sherlock's, his hand grips Sherlock's waist as he begins a long, slow slide down his love's trousered leg, then just as slowly rises and begins to – grind – against Sherlock, all in time to the driving beat.

The detective can feel the soldier's muscles as they contract and release through the tight denim of his jeans.

_I don't know why you treat me so bad_

_Think of all the things we could have had_

John's body writhes against Sherlock. His left hand reaches out and encircles Sherlock's waist. He pulls firmly and Sherlock's body meets John's – every single, blessed inch.

John's breathe comes hot against Sherlock's chest. He feels it through the cool silk of his shirt as his doctor rubs against his skin. His clothes might as well not exist.

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water_

John continues to hum and move against Sherlock . His compact musculature bends, dips, rises and slides against the other man's body slowly, with intent. Sherlock's breathe comes in tight gasps. The overwhelming bass thrums through his skeleton.

_Hold me, squeeze me, love me, tease me_

_'Till I can, 'till I can, I can't tell  
_

The bones of John's hips press into and against Sherlock's. The doctor's body is one tense muscle as he slow dances against the other man there in the dark.

"John."

"Don't talk."

He bends again, his entire body pressing up against Sherlock's. The detective's flat stomach muscles quiver with desire. And want.

"Feel."

Sherlock's breath comes in tight gasps. Every time John's pelvis brushes against Sherlock, the detective feels the doctor's growing erection, impossible to ignore. John insinuates his right leg between Sherlock's legs, up against his crotch. He smiles a darkly pleased smile. And rubs against the detective again as he dances in front of him.

_If this is what rock music does to John Watson … he's having the flat wired for sound, post haste._

Sherlock's left hand reaches out and without knowing what he is doing, he grabs the fabric of John's shirt, his long fingers fist in the cotton, pulled tight over the doctor's good shoulder. He yanks John toward him, all the time knowing it's impossible for the two of them to get any closer and still remain vertical. His own erection is near rock hard now. There is no way John hasn't noted it.

"Now you're getting it," John whispers.

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water_

His right hand fists the cool silk of Sherlock's dark shirt and he pulls the detective's body even closer toward him, until Sherlock's muscles nearly meld with John's.

_Love is an ocean that I can't forget_

_My sweet sixteen I would never regret_

John twists in Sherlock's embrace, the silk shirt bunched up in his warm insistent hand. He mouths the words to Sherlock, all the while he twists his hips and pushes his pelvis against the straining body in front of him.

"Let go, Love," he whispers.

Sherlock's eyes close. He begins to move to the heavy beat.

John begins to sing, his voice deeper than normal as he near chants the words to Sherlock.

 _I don't know why I love you like I do_ _  
All the trouble you put me through_

"Dancing," thinks Sherlock, his mind nearly blown. "We are dancing. I am dancing with John Watson."

John's movements are intense, deliberate, achingly slow. His meaning plain to a blind man.

" _And oh dear God_ ," thinks Sherlock, " _he can sing._ _This is_ _so bloody_ _Hot._ "

_Take me to the river, Drop me in the water_

_Push me in the river, Dip me in the water_

_Washing me down…..Washing me…_

And all the time John moves, he keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face. John's arms and legs and body brook no argument. Slowly, so slowly he can hear his own heart beat in time with the rhythm, Sherlock begins to mimic John's movements. His lean body, fluid, beautiful, bends and grinds in time with John's.

Their bodies dip – and lift – together.

John smiles as he presses against Sherlock. Once the detective yanks John to him by his left hand, a firm grasp around his soldier's waist, John leans back against his love's embrace and shuts his eyes as he slides against Sherlock.

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water_

Sherlock's pale eyes close. The drum beat reverberates through his soul. He feels his own heart beat as a bass metronome that beats in his throat, his chest, the palms of his hands, his fingertips where they touch John.

Pressed up against each other in the dark, they twist and move to an age old tune.

He tugs slightly on John's hand, the doctor looks up at him, a slow, secret smile plays around his face. Sherlock leans and kisses John on the lips. It is not a nice kiss. John shuts his eyes and tilts into the heady sensation of soft lips, wet tongue, hot moist mouth. But never stops swaying or rubbing against his mad love.

Sherlock's body moves in total rhythm with his doctor's body now. Holding on to John, as if to a lifeline, he lets his long legs, his entire torso, Bend. Writhe. Grind.

The two men circle each other slowly, never letting loose of each other.

There in the pulsating dark, a million miles from care and worry, Sherlock Holmes dirty dances with John Watson.

And no one reaches out a hand to stop them.

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water …_

_Take me to the River_

_Drop me in the Water_

_Washing me down.. Washing me down…_

_OooOooO_

* **Sherlock and John – Rebellion of Angels. Part Two: Principalities**

 

**Author's Note:  I read somewhere that 'good' fiction never resorts to using song lyrics in the work.**

**Well... NUTS to that.**

 

John / Sherlock scenes written to "Take Me to the River" – Talking Heads.


	4. Chapter 4

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 4**

**Smiles ….and Silly Conversation …**

There's an Easter egg in here for all my readers. Not a difficult one, either. 'sky'

**OooOooO**

**221B Baker Street**

**Three Days before their Anniversary**

"John, are we gay?"

There are three times in John Watson's life that something someone has said or done has caused him to either spit milk out his nose, or in this case, choke on a cup of tea.

The first time was when little Madelaine Johansen came up to him in the lunch room and proceeded to mash her lips against his. They were both eight years old.

By this time, John's father had begun using John's small body as an occasional punching bag (he had yet to break John's wrist – that was still a month away) and John had begun to withdraw from his classmates, albeit in a fairly unobtrusive way. He simply seemed no longer interested in playing with his friends or even in doing the bit of homework they were assigned. In fact, young John was slowly becoming uninterested in much at all, except surviving his male parent's rages. And his mother's near total indifference to all things  _John_. (It would be another six years before John stopped trying to please his Mum. He kept hoping…but that's another story.)

He was quite good at his schoolwork, when pushed, and his teacher suspected something was up but John's father was careful when and where he put the bruises and nothing showed. Not physically. So she followed the path of least resistance and did nothing. But she knew John was clever and perhaps he just needed a bit of extra guidance. Which she was happy to provide. If only that particular teacher had been able to look into John's soul, she would have seen the gathering cloud that threatened to obscure what had been a small, sunny, outgoing personality. No matter. She didn't see it, no one did, and that was that. None of which has any bearing on this particular narrative, not really, but it is important to note for later events.

Back to Madelaine Johansen. John sat in the back of the lunch room, with his best mate, Dave, and was picking up his tray, with his still mostly uneaten chicken fingers, when the little redhead walked up to him, whispered something to him, and calmly planted one on him, unfortunately, just as he had taken his last sip of milk from his milk carton. The stupid carton he could never quite open properly. He always ended up bending and then ripping the ends and leaving a bit of cardboard sticking up that he had to drink around. It was  _that_  sort of milk carton.

"It's a kwiss, Jawn," she whispered, just before her lips met his. "I saw Mummy do it." (Madelaine never mentioned just exactly who she saw 'Mummy' do it  _to_ …but no matter.)

Madelaine always spoke with a tiny lisp, which the very young John Watson found charming, although he did not put it to himself like that. And he greatly admired her fuzzy ginger hair. In fact, he admired Madelaine a lot.

Until the day she kissed him.

He was so utterly astonished, so completely taken by surprise, that he did nothing – other than spurt milk out his nose. (Dave dropped his own tray in disbelief at the kiss.) It was the first time such a thing had ever occurred to John, well, in addition to the kissing bit, and he was unprepared for the choking and sputtering which ensued. Of course, he was completely unprepared for the near total embarrassment at having his best friend, the entire class and half the universe see him being kissed by Madelaine Johansen – and spewing milk out his nostrils, all over himself and partially on Madelaine's pink and blue jumper.

Madelaine departed in a huff, (actually, Madelaine's face and jumper departed, followed almost immediately by her long, fuzzy ginger hair); Dave sniggered, while attempting to pick up his spilled utensils; John's face turned crimson and he dearly wished he could sink through the earth, as most of his classmates, and half the lunch room, appeared to be laughing at him. That is, the half that had seen the incident. Most of them had missed it entirely or were focused on Dave's tray, thinking the ker plunking of same against the tiled cafeteria floor is what had caused all the fuss. And then they promptly forgot about it. But John had no way of knowing this. He suspected he was scarred for life.

(Once John came of age to not only notice what is commonly referred to as the fair sex but to actually do something about it, he was very satisfactorily able to prove to himself and to his partners of the female gender that not only was he  _not_  scarred for life, but quite the opposite. However, at the time of said incident, he never again kissed or was kissed by Madelaine Johansen, which did not have any further effect on John whatsoever, but was rather sad for Madelaine, when you think about it.)

The second time John lost it, milk wise, it wasn't milk, it was beer.

It was in Afghanistan and of course, it was Bill Murray who had just relayed a totally outrageous, completely inappropriate story (it was late and everyone was just sitting around, resting, enjoying a beer, glad to have survived another day.) It was a rather unbelievable, albeit enjoyable story that involved one of the sergeants, who by a great deal of coincidence, was out on patrol at the time, and who no one much cared for at the best of times – and the hind end of a camel. Or it might have been the nether regions of a donkey. Or it could have been the radiator of the company jeep. John could never quite remember the particulars. (At that time, John was one week away from the bullet and any and all events leading up to that one catastrophic occurrence tend to pale in his memory.)

It wasn't Bill's casual observation of what a great many of John's fellow soldiers already suspected about this particular sergeant – or the fact that Murray had actually voiced aloud his opinion of the fellow's rather, er private moments with said camel, (or donkey or accessible, perforated auto parts) an opinion which many of those present happened to share.

It's just the way that Murray put it.

John choked on his beer. Spewed said swallow of beer on his sandwich, and laughed. This time beer did not come out his nose, but it was a near thing. And even if it did, he would have survived the humiliation. He was amongst friends and no one would have thought a thing about it.

The third time was five seconds ago, when Sherlock Holmes, who was obviously bored out of his skull at the sudden dearth of cases, and lying, supine with inertia on their sofa, his fingers under his chin in an attitude of prayer, had casually inquired as to John's opinion on their shared sexuality (or status of same.)

John sits in his new/old chair, the coffee table pulled up to him at an angle. He is cleaning his guns, all three of them. (For the sake of record, John actually has four guns, but we will not speak of the fourth at this time in our narrative.) Having just finished the Browning, he sets it aside, pulls Jake Lynn's Sig Sauer to him (he intends to return it to the man later this week) and then proceeds to use his gun rag to clean up the tea he has just managed to spurt all over said Sig. The charming Makaroff that Sherlock gifted him with on John's last birthday patiently awaits its turn.

It should be noted here that John's guns talk to him. John can pick up one of his weapons and by hefting it in his hand, fingering the grip, rubbing his calloused thumb over the trigger guard, he is immediately transported back to the moment in time when he last used said piece of weaponry. His guns speak to him. And he carefully listens to what they have to say. He does not find this odd but it is not a fact that he is willing to broadcast to anyone else, not even Sherlock. Another soldier would have understood immediately or one of Mycroft's agents.

The Browning, quite proud to take pride of place in John's hands, tells him of their latest cases and how John handled himself and whether or not he had to pull said Browning from his back waistband and use it or not. And whether he was successful in his intentions or if he should visit the nearest gun range and practice a bit more. Which event has yet to occur for practical reasons, but John feels he might be a bit slow because of very real recent events and therefore, plans to visit the gun range quite soon. With Sherlock's wholehearted approval. And not because Sherlock thinks John needs the practice – far from it. But because John inevitably returns to the flat smelling like…well, you can read that bit farther down, as well.

(The Browning can be rather – smug – because it was the weapon responsible for penetrating the left pulmonary artery of Sebastian Moran's heart, passing on through the aorta and just nicking the left atrium, causing immediate mayhem and irreparable damage, before exiting through the sniper's back. It was aiming for his spinal cord as it exited - but you can't have everything. Every time it becomes a tad insufferable about this fact, though, John notes that he has no memory of this event, which always serves to take the Browning down a peg or two. Also, the Browning has no way of knowing that D.I. Lestrade's Walther PPK was entirely responsible for neatly clipping the back of said Moran's skull and splattering his brain matter all over Mycroft Holmes. Again, another story, but a rather exciting one, so we felt it deserved repeating here.)

The Sig has begun to do the same thing but it only has one truly important story to tell, as far as John Watson is concerned, and that is the time, a little over one week earlier, when John sat there in the same chair, and thought seriously about putting the business end of said weapon in his mouth - and pulling the trigger. He was seconds away. But thankfully, Sherlock got all that sorted and it is no longer an issue. Instead, its bullets were discharged into the horrid flocked wallpaper. Although it's happy that it wasn't the cause of John's death, still it is not proud of the fact that all of it's effort went into leaving a rather large and noticeable hole in their wall (which drives Mrs. Hudson to distraction but has no effect, one way or the other, on our guys); however, at least the bullets  _were_  discharged and some mayhem  _did_  occur, even if of the wall-paper-and-plaster-destruction variety, so that's something.

The Sig was also responsible for shooting a hole across the thigh of a rather horrid kidnapper and would-be assassin and this was also at John's hands…but it didn't get to blow the man's brains out, despite his threatening Sherlock's Mum. It was rather miffed at John for this. It feels it would have done the job very neatly but is willing to overlook it, as John was quite pleased with the way it handled itself during this little episode, so it lets the incident go. The Sig is sad that it will have no more stories to tell to John, as it is being returned to Jake Lynn in a few days time. On the other hand, it rather likes Jake, his hand is nearly as warm and steady as John's, (so close as the difference is not worth noting) so it suspects all will be well.

The Makaroff, on the other hand. Well, the Makaroff does not speak the same language as the other two guns currently lying on the table, but John understands it. (It should be noted that there are very few weapons in the known world that John Watson does not understand, as is to be expected.) It's just that the most glorious thing it has ever done in its young life is blow Marcus Frank's brains out the back of his head at the hands of Sherlock Holmes. John is - still - totally unaware of this fact. Sherlock is not forthcoming about it either. Which makes the Makaroff a bit melancholy, as it somehow seems to sense that it's days of being carted around by the only consulting detective in the world are possibly numbered, or at the least, few and far between. So although it has certainly fulfilled its promise of coolly being as deadly-looking a piece of weaponry John has ever held in his hands * – it is not John's hands that have afforded it the opportunity to be of service. It still holds out hope.

(John has carried the Makaroff on four different occasions since receiving it as a gift from Sherlock, and always in its ankle holster, so it does have some frame of reference when it comes to John Watson's hands, or rather, his ankles, but truth be told, it misses Sherlock – who knows how to do things properly, mayhem-wise.)

All of which does not come into this narrative at this particular time, but bears noting for later events.

Now there are many things that Sherlock Holmes could be doing at this moment in time. He just solved a minor problem for D.I. Dimmock, but is so bored by the entire thing, he can't be arsed to text the man. He has a brand new compound microscope, courtesy of his brother Mycroft, who, deviously, dipped into his younger brother's trust fund to pay for said piece of equipment, but he has yet to break it in. He is contemplating doing so by examining viable human spermatozoa – John's, of course – but has yet to carry out this particular experiment. He is, as he puts it to himself, biding his time.

He has a few experiments cooking, not literally, of course, as John has forbade him to use either their toaster (another new one, courtesy of a quick trip to the Tesco, which also sells toasters and not the local IKEA, as John detests that store and refuses to enter it ever again, unless forced to at gunpoint, and once made a rather pointed reference to retailers who practically need to provide hammers, saws, and nails along with their sheets of nearly incomprehensible instructions to the purchaser, in order for same to eventually end up with something three-dimensional that even remotely resembles the wares on display in the store. We could go on here but best not to incur a lawsuit. Sherlock, who usually does no shopping whatsoever, has no frame of reference on where to purchase replacement kitchen utensils and could not care less, at any rate.)

Nor is he allowed to use their oven to house his experiments. John's dictates again. But he does have a few things going in their fridge, on the experiment shelf, as well as in various beakers and bottles and bowls on their much maligned kitchen table, including something rather horrid and bright green in the Erlenmeyer flask, but as John knows never, ever to touch the Erlenmeyer flask, under any circumstances, particularly after the incident from seven months back, well, it's all fine.

And in their sugar bowl. But Sherlock has not divulged this to John – yet. In fact, he has temporarily forgotten about it. John, on the other hand, has yet to find out about the sugar bowl as he has just spewed his first mouthful of this particular mug of tea out over the Sig and the surrounding surface of the coffee table. And it's a good thing, too, as said substance residing two inches under the top layer of sugar might, just might, have played havoc with John's digestive system. John rarely takes sugar in his tea, although Sherlock has quite the sweet tooth. But that never happens, so no worries there.

Nor could Sherlock be playing the violin. He has yet to attend his first Physical Therapy session (that appointment being made for the following week) and he has, currently, no violin on which to practice. Their anniversary is still three days off and the violin John has purchased for Sherlock is still to be delivered.

However, he could be fingering scales, against the flannel fabric of his worn pyjamas, reading something, anything John fervently wishes, even the backs of the cereal boxes, or he could be elsewhere, perhaps at the Yard, pestering Lestrade or Anderson or whoever is on duty at the moment. (Both men have had their fill of D.I. Dimmock and are doing their best to avoid the man.)

He could be at the morgue following Molly Hooper around and inquiring as to the availability of fresh bodies or parts of same. (Actually, he couldn't, as Molly has finally taken a hard-earned, much-needed vacation and is currently visiting a close friend in Paris. Our Molly deserves the break and she is rather enjoying herself.) And neither man would enjoy getting to know her temporary replacement, but that comes in farther down in this story, so we'll leave it for now.

Or he could, possibly, be watching crap telly.

Over Sherlock's dead body.

Sherlock would rather be socked in the face with a sock full of wet cow excrement than watch telly. In fact, he would probably find the assault rather interesting, in an offbeat  _Sherlock_ sort of way. John has rubbed off on him in a great many ways, but the enjoyment of mindless programs written by mindless idiots parading their idiocy on the small screen for the entire world to view is not one of them. (He rather enjoys the manic clock lord who travels in the tumbling police box, as he thinks the scripts are quite clever, but he has no intentions of telling this to John.)

He is doing none of these things. He is, in fact, lying back on their sofa, in said angelic posture, his dark curly head propped on two pillows, staring at the ceiling, a scant few feet from John Watson.

Earlier, before the 'are we gay?' comment, as John spreads his gun supplies over the table, he tosses out ideas, in a quiet,  _John_ sort of voice. Only to have Sherlock shoot them down, usually right after he utters them.

"Molly?"

"Dull. On temporary leave or vacation, or some such. Paris."

"Hmmm. All right. Case files?"

"Boring. Sorted and alphabetized." Here Sherlock lifts his curly head to regard John. "And you have yet to type the remainder of the "T's" into our database, John. Really, you are shockingly behind –"

"Yes, all right, Sherlock. Thank you for reminding me of what I haven't done in the past couple of months."

Sherlock's head falls back against the pillows and he goes back to contemplating the ceiling. After a moment, "I'm sorry, John. I didn't mean to remind you."

John sighs and sorts out the small brushes he uses on the various guns. "Sherlock, it's fine. I am reminded each time I look in the mirror to brush my teeth. Or attempt to go through one day without – just let it go."

He picks up the smallest brush and looks at it, then glances at the man supine on their sofa.

"Sock index?"

"Oh, for gods' sakes. Done. Days back. As if –"

"Fine. Whatever."

Sherlock continues to lie on their sofa, stare at the ceiling, and pretend he is such a genius that he can't be arsed to care much about anything at the moment. Anyone else might wonder why he doesn't get up, dress and leave the flat for a while, just to stir things up a bit.

But he doesn't. He remains right there, next to John. And pouts.

He is not fooling John one little bit. John has long since learned the effects of the aroma of gun oil on the libido of said detective and if he is applying it a bit – lavishly - well, who can blame him?

It is a fact to be noted that when Sherlock Holmes is bored, John Watson definitely is not. Exasperated, yes. Frustrated, frequently, although he has learned to channel this frustration into frequent sexual experimentation, with Sherlock's full and hearty participation, it might be added.

It's just that a bored Sherlock can be a rather dangerous Sherlock.

So John remains close to his paramour and sits in his chair and cleans his guns. Except now. Now he is cleaning up warm tea that he has spit out all over the Sig, wiping tea off the coffee table, and using his best gun cleaning rag to do it. Which leaves a rather noticeable aroma of gun oil not only on John's hands, which is what he was going for, but also on the surface of the coffee table.

In retrospect, John believes the scent of gun oil on their coffee table might be a good thing, and in fact, might work out to his advantage. Later this very evening, he hopes. As it was just the evening before that Sherlock decided that the main reason the flat feels "off" to both of them is that they have yet to christen every newly upholstered or restored horizontal surface, with the exception of the sofa – which they have done, twice - and have only once availed themselves of one of the vertical surfaces, which incident occurred yesterday afternoon, just as John came in from doing the shopping, his hands full of bags and milk and chocolate digestives and Twining's. At which time, Sherlock literally threw him against the entryway wall and had at it. With his soldier's full and hearty participation, it might be added.

(Afterwards, John made Sherlock clean up the quart of milk which had, inexplicably, spilled out all over the floor. Sherlock, being especially grateful for his love's complete and utter cooperation with the hasty experiment in domestic bliss, actually went to the kitchen, found a towel, and proceeded to mop up the milk. This is a verifiable fact. John took pictures on his mobile to prove it, after first insisting Sherlock put on his trousers.)

Afterward, in a very satisfactory post coital haze, Sherlock then noted rather lazily that the flat surface of the coffee table needed to be christened too, but that was last evening and neither he – nor John – have yet to do anything about it.

All of which  **does**  come into this narrative…but further down a bit. So keep reading.

Which brings us to the aforementioned seemingly innocent comment from Sherlock to John, causing John to spit out his tea and to reply in his usual, succinct fashion.

"What?"

Says John.

"You heard me. I don't stutter."

Says Sherlock.

"Sherlock, what brought this up?"

John stares at the detective. The detective continues to look at the ceiling, obviously waiting for an answer.

John sighs. "Sherlock, I don't even know where you get these – I mean." He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "Nope. I got nothing."

He looks at the table again, then leans over and picks up the Makaroff, and begins to dissemble it.

Sherlock turns his head to regard his Army doctor. "The actual definition is romantic or sexual attraction or behavior between members of the same sex or gender."

John turns his head to look at Sherlock, one blonde eyebrow raised.

Sherlock looks John up and down and a slight frown appears between the two grayish-green eyes.

"In your case, John, that would not hold entirely true as you have obviously engaged in sexual relations with both sexes in the past."

John continues to stare at him.

"It's not a difficult question, John. I just wondered where you stood on the whole issue."

His soldier looks down at the gun in his hand, then leans forward and carefully places it on the coffee table with the other guns.

He clears his throat.

"Sherlock, look. Here's the thing."

He clasps his hands in front of him. And proceeds to talk to them. "We had this conversation some time ago. You know my sexual history and I know yours – well, what you admit to or even remember. So this isn't about how either one of us 'identifies.'

He looks up at Sherlock.

"Succinct and very well put. And I assure you, John, there is nothing about my 'sexual history' as you insist on putting it that you don't know or that I haven't been forthcoming concerning, least of all –"

"Bullocks. One name, Sherlock - St. John."

John, with a rather smug look on his face, sits and regards the other man, awaiting some response.

(John's still waiting. And this particular conversation took place months ago.)

(For those readers who are not British, the above name is not pronounced Saint John, as many Americans assume but the actual pronounciation is SinJun. John, of course, pronounces it correctly. Glad we got that straight.)

"Sherlock? Any comment?"

John looks at him steadily. Dark blue eyes stare into pale grey-green eyes.

"John, I thought we agreed that certain – personages – were never to be mentioned under this roof. Besides, I didn't know this issue would disturb you, John, or I would never have brought it up."

"Disturb me? Sherlock - oh for fucks' sake!"

John sets the Makaroff back down and crosses over to perch on the edge of the sofa. He runs one hand, gently through the dark curls. "Look, love. Do you want to tell me what brought this up?"

Sherlock nods, his demeanor serious. "John, the only reason I asked is because of the various venues open to those of the gay persuasion."

You can drive a truck through the frown lines on John's forehead. "Venues. Open to gays."

Dark curls shake vigorously. "Yes, John. That entire incident the other day at the dance club. It was –"

John smiles, leans over and speaks carefully into the gorgeous mouth. "Yes, Sherlock? It was what, exactly?" He begins to nuzzle the amazing lips.

"Hmmm. Nice. It was –"

Thin soft lips mash against full soft lips. "Yes?"

"Hot. John. Very hot. And there are many dance clubs out there that cater exclusively to the gay community and so I was thinking –"

"We have got to keep you thinking, Sherlock, at all costs." John stops kissing the amazing lips and begins to kiss his way down Sherlock's neck. He nudges the shirt collar aside.

"What I was thinking, John, was that upon occasion, we might –" Nuzzle. Kiss. "Er, we might avail ourselves of the –"

John's fingers part the dark blue shirt and he bends lower. He wets a thumb and circles one rose-tinted nipple.

"Avail ourselves of the various options for –"

"Sherlock, do you really think we need to go out to enjoy dancing together?"

Insert heavy breathing.

"John?"

"Hmm. Kissing your neck, Sherlock. Takes concentration."

"I've noted your fascination with my neck, John. The point is, would you object?"

"Damn right I'd object. All those men ogling you? I'd spend all my time fighting, in order to defend your oh-so-elegant arse and none of my time dancing. So Hell, yes, I object."

"Fighting to defend my- John! That's really rather hot in itself. And you think my arse is elegant? "

"I think your arse is fucking stupendous, Sherlock, as you well know. And while you're thinking so hard you might want to—"

"Budging over now, John."

"Good. Good deduction, Sherlock."

The two men don't speak again for a very long time.

Much, much later.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

"I'm game, if you want to try it occasionally."

Contented sigh.

"Try what, John?"

"Never mind, Sherlock."

"Hmmm. 'kay, John."

**OooOooO**

Later, John brings in the post. And smiles.

Sherlock, who hasn't moved in the past hour, well not much, cocks an eyebrow.

 

_**Mr. & Mrs. Martino Rodriguez** _

_**Request the pleasure of your company** _

_**At the marriage of their son** _

_**Joseph Benedicto Rodriguez** _

_**To** _

_**Lorilei Jane Hansen** _

_**At 4:00 pm** _

_**On Saturday, the 7th of ...** _

 

"Dull."

"Sherlock, it's Lori's wedding. Of course, we'll attend."

Pause.

"Does this mean you'll wear the suit, John?"

"No, Sherlock. I'm going barefoot, in jeans and a jumper. Of course, I'll wear  _the_ suit, as you call it. I'll probably need a new shirt. Something happened to the buttons of the other one."

"Excellent. Please RSVP for us both, John. And get ready. We're going shirt shopping."

" Sherlock – we've got a case on."

"Nothing the good D.I. can't handle himself, John. Solution should be obvious, even to Dimmock, who frankly, bores me. Taking you shopping is much more interesting."

Silence.

"Well?"

Silence.

"John?"

"Sorry, mind blanked out there for a second. Where is Sherlock Holmes and what have you done with him?"

"Funny. Send the RSVP, John. And get dressed. We're going out."

Silence.

"Problem?"

"Nope. No problem. Just thinking of checking 221C for pods…that's all."

"Your cultural references are often obscure, John."

"Only to you, Sherlock. Only to you."

**OooOooO**

The most powerful man in the hemisphere accepts the steaming cup of tea she hands him and waits while she gets settled and takes a first sip of her own tea.

"My dear, do you hear anything?"

Anthea cocks her head slightly and looks at him. Then she smiles.

It's a blinding smile.

" _Lynn is good for her,"_  he thinks. " _They're good for each other. Surely, the wedding_   _will be announced soon?"_

But there's a small pang when he thinks it and Mycroft is not entirely certain what to do with that.

Still smiling, Anthea sets her mug of tea on the desk in front of her. Her Blackberry, note pad and pen rest in her lap. She shakes her dark head and the overhead light picks out the mahogany highlights in her glossy hair.

"No. No, Sir, I don't believe I do hear anything."

"Exactly."

And they both turn their heads slightly, hers to the right and his to the left, to look at his blissfully silent mobile phone, which sits innocently and unaware to his exact left.

He nods, thoroughly satisfied, and takes another sip of tea.

**OooOooO**

Back from a very satisfying shopping experience, the men come to a halt inside the door to 221.

John's Harley-Davidson, newly repaired and repainted, leans against the far wall. Mrs. Hudson comes out of her flat and smiles indulgently as John excitedly goes over the bike, noting the repairs and the new brilliant paint, a shining black, picked out here and there in the original yellow.

He nods. "Perfect."

Sherlock looks at the bike, shakes his head, greets Mrs. Hudson and takes the stairs to their flat.

"John, will you expect to leave it here inside all the—"

"No. God, no, Mrs. Hudson. Sorry he even brought it in. It can stay outside. Or in a car park or something. To tell you the truth, I haven't given it that much thought."

She nods, pleased, and hands him the keys and the delivery receipt.

John grins at her, glances at the Harley one more time, notes the two helmets that were delivered with it, and hugs her. Then he's gone up the steps, after Sherlock, his hands full of clothing packages, which among other items, includes two new dress shirts, and a rather flattering pale blue Cashmere jumper Sherlock insisted on buying, over John's vehement objections.

She stands and stares after him, smiling, her heart so very glad that the gentle doctor is nearly himself again.

**OooOooO**

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson."

"Humph. You ask me, you should be resting, after what you've been through."

"I assure you, I am quite all right. But thank you for your concern. Please ask Ms. Deborah to – oh excellent, she's early."

Deborah nods at Mrs. Robinson, as the two women pass each other. The housekeeper looks the younger woman up and down, reserves judgment, and leaves to take the menu to the kitchen.

Anthea's PA comes into Mrs. Holmes personal office and smiles at Regina before seating herself in front of the beautiful antique French writing desk. She lays her Blackberry and a bulging file on the desk in front of her.

The two women regard each other for a moment.

"Good morning, Deborah."

"Good morning, Mrs. Holmes."

"I trust you slept well. And breakfasted."

"Yes, I did, thank you. And I have this morning's Agenda here."

"Excellent. Now about the wedding date and the problem with the—"

"Excuse me, Mrs. Holmes, but that is all taken care of."

"I beg your pardon?"

Deborah lifts a single paper from her file folder and hands it across the desk to Regina.

"Yes, Mrs. Holmes. I spoke personally with the Archbishop's assistant, as well as with the Secretary and the date is set, as well as the time. All objections have been withdrawn. Now about the wedding cake –"

"All objections. Withdrawn."

Regina studies the sheet, then hands it back. She cocks her head to regard the auburn-haired young woman who is seated in front of her.

"Yes, Ma'am. Technically, they weren't objections but rather misunderstandings. As it happens, there was a conflict in dates. But they now understand the importance of this wedding and the event will proceed apace."

"You spoke personally to –"

"Here is a list of the traditional recipes. The men might prefer something different, perhaps white chocolate? And I took the liberty of ordering the cake topper. Here's a photograph. And here are a few photos of sample wedding cake designs for your consideration."

Deborah hands the Holmes matron several photographs, then sits back and watches her face.

"Two males. Both in morning suits. Amusing."

"What is, Mrs. Holmes?"

"One figure is shorter than the other. Most excellent. But amusing. I'll want to keep the cake photographs for perusal."

"Of course. And thank you. Now about the nuptials themselves. I assume the men will want to write their own vows. Have you actually spoken with either of them about this?"

Regina pours her second cup of tea for the morning from a beautiful French tea set, courtesy of Sherlock's fraternal French grandmother, and looks at her own planner, which sits on the polished surface in front of her.

"I expect John – Captain Watson – will wish to write his own. I'm not entirely certain about my son."

Deborah smiles gently and accepts the photograph of the cake topper back from Regina. She places it in her folder.

"Shouldn't we leave that up to them, Mrs. Holmes?"

"Certainly not. Please get Captain Watson on the phone."

"Actually, Mrs. Holmes, er, thank you but I've had my tea. Actually, I've spoken with Sherlock – with Mr. Holmes last evening regarding the question of vows."

"And what was his response?"

"I believe he said 'Whatever John wants.' And hung up rather hurriedly."

"And what was his response when you informed him of the need to attend the first fitting session?"

"The same. 'Whatever John wants.'" I'm not entirely certain he even listened long enough to get the gist of what I was asking of them."

"I see. Please get Sherlock on the phone immediately."

Deborah nods and lifts her Blackberry.

Regina regards her quietly over her cup of tea. She nods to herself. And sets the tea down.

"Just a minute, my dear."

Deborah pauses, her thumb over the call button. She looks at Regina and raises one eyebrow.

"You know, we will be working rather closely together for a while and it's ridiculous that I am unable to use your last name."

Deborah just smiles at her.

Regina regards her evenly.

"Mrs. Holmes, you know, of course, that I work with your eldest son. And I know that you are more than aware that his PA's use pseudonyms and why."

Regina smiles. But it's a cool smile and Sherlock would warn Deborah, if he were available. Which he isn't.

"My dear, let's be frank with each other. I should tell you outright that I am well aware of your name and your antecedents."

Deborah's smile slips, just a bit. She carefully places her Blackberry on the desk and sits back slightly. And waits.

Regina nods, impressed.  _"Quite intelligent and does not talk incessantly. Excellent."_

Aloud she says, "Deborah, or should I say Ms. Sakai, I am most impressed with your performance, so far, but I simply cannot keep calling you by that rather mundane pseudonym, as you call it."

Deborah looks at Regina for a moment, then nods.

"Mrs. Holmes, I think I will take that cup of tea, if you don't mind. And I should tell you that the 'rather mundane' pseudonym was my Grandmother's given name."

Regina pauses slightly, then continues pouring the tea. She hands the young woman a beautiful bone china cup and sits back.

"I loved my Grandmother, Mrs. Holmes. And I consider it an honor to carry her name."

Regina smiles again. "I certainly understand, Ms. Saki. Or should I say, Marianna? Really, a most beautiful first name. Do you have any objections to my using your actual last name?"

Deborah stares at her over the delicate tea cup with the tiny fleur de lis decorations. And comes to a decision. "No, Mrs. Holmes. I don't object. As long as it remains here in your home. But I do prefer you use the name Deborah."

"As you wish, my dear."

Deborah Sakai sets the cup down on the saucer in front of her. And leans forward.

"Mrs. Holmes, when you say you are aware of my antecedents, are you saying that Mr. Holmes gave you this information?"

Regina sits back and taps one beautifully manicured fingernail on the delicately-embroidered chair arm.

"Not at all. My son was quite circumspect, as was his Personal Assistant. I'm saying that I had your background thoroughly investigated before I allowed you in my home, Ms. Sakai. As you know, there have been – threats. Most of them directed against my youngest son. And against his chosen partner, Captain John Watson. But threats nonetheless. I could not take a chance with anyone entering my home unless I was very well, let us say –  _conversant_ \- with their background."

Deborah stares at her. "Mrs. Holmes, what you are saying is –"

"What I am telling you, my Dear, is that while my son, Mycroft Holmes, has certain investigation avenues available to him, I have mine."

She nods coolly and picks up her cup of tea. "And mine, my dear Ms. Sakai, are just as thorough and ever more far-reaching. Do I make myself clear?"

Deborah's green eyes narrow. Then she nods. "Yes, Mrs. Holmes. I think we are quite clear."

"Excellent. Then we can proceed. Would you please call my youngest –"

Deborah Sakai picks up her Blackberry, her hand only gently shaking, and thumbs Sherlock's number.

Regina Holmes continues to tap her fingernail on her chair arm. And nods again to herself.

" _Most excellent. She'll do nicely."_

**OooOooO**

**221B Baker Street –**

**Two days before their Anniversary**

**60 seconds after Regina's conversation with Deborah**

It's early at 221B. Tea and toast leisurely consumed, the two men settle into what John hopes will be a quiet day at home with zero intrusions by the outside world.

The doctor types steadily away at his blog, writing up but not yet posting, their latest cases (he has yet to read the retraction of his death and Sherlock's injury in the papers and until he does, his entries remain in the Saved queue.) As he types, John considers the fact that at least a couple dozen, if not more persons, most of them involved in the area of law enforcement, have seen him – and Sherlock - alive and well at various crime scenes in the past week and he wonders how fast word of mouth will actually serve to negate Mycroft's painstaking lie.

He wonders when the inevitable phone calls will begin, containing the inevitable angry demands for explanations.

From time to time, he glances over at the detective, who lies stretched out on their sofa, hands in an attitude of prayer, nearly comatose in his normal post-case ennui.

John continues to type, his soul relishing the uncommon quiet – and then Sherlock's mobile rings. An actual call usually means Mycroft or Anthea, and John shakes his head slightly, but keeps his eyes on his screen. His ears, however….

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Mr. Holmes. This is  _Deborah_. I work with Anthea. We spoke earlier this week. Mrs. Holmes asked me to give you a follow-up call. You and Doctor Watson are expected for fittings this afternoon at –"

"This afternoon. Sorry, we have a case on. Can't be arsed."

"Mr. Holmes, I assure you this is utterly necessary or I would never have disturbed you so early."

Deborah's voice is calm.

Sherlock's is not.

Who IS this person anyway? Has his brother gone mad? Finally forced the assistant to his assistant on them? Oh. She said 'Mrs. Holmes.' This is his mother's infernal interference then.

" _And so it begins,"_  he muses. Bloody hell. They've managed to dodge the bullet thus far. But no longer, he suspects.

"Mr. Holmes - " the woman is patient, he has to give her that. On the other hand, she would have to be, wouldn't she? Caught between his insufferable brother, his equally insufferable mother and his brother's PA. He suspects this 'Deborah's' life is currently hell on earth.

He has zero sympathy.

" - You cannot miss this appointment."

And what a ridiculous pseudonym. You'd think they could come up with something better. He idly thinks of 11 more appropriate cover names for this female personage – in 2.21 seconds - all of them culled from Greek and Roman mythology. Well, _Pandora_  might be a bit of a stretch…

"Mr. Holmes, you and Doctor Watson are to be at  _Jonathan's_  at 1:00 pm sharp for your initial fittings session. Today. There should only be one more after this – they're quite good – so you won't be inconvenienced more than is absolutely necessary."

Sherlock, who has more than a passing acquaintance with  _Jonathan's,_  raises one eyebrow and looks over at John, who sits in his chair, typing away two-fingered at his damn blog. There is an insufferable smile on his paramour's face. John is listening and actually enjoying this.

_Fine. The game is on._

Sherlock modifies his voice to sound as pleasantly unctuous as possible. "Yes, of course. But let me hand you over to Doctor Watson. He – er takes care of all of our social engagements."

To his utter delight, John's head whips up and his dark eyes narrow.

"Mr. Holmes, this is  _not_  a social engagement. I expect the both of you to be—"

"Whatever John wants. Hold on a sec, would you?"

He glances at John, smiles sweetly and-

"Here, John, some nonsense about fittings or such. Mycroft's PA's PA…" he tosses the mobile across their living area to John who fumbles the catch, then shoots a look of pure murder at Sherlock , as he bends over to retrieve the phone, only to hear the woman speaking in what must have been a nonstop conversation.

"Er, John Watson here? Do you mind repeating—"

" _Jonathan's._  Today. 1:00. Sharp. Be there!"

She hangs up.

John tosses Sherlock's phone to the side. He glances over at his curly-haired fiancée', who reclines – still – against the more comfortable of the cushions on their sofa. The sofa that just last evening they christened. The sofa that John has become so very fond of in such a short period of time. It's a rather remarkable sofa and he suspects that Anthea is a pure genius when it comes to picking out living area furniture.

He repeats the admonition.

"Jonathan's. 1:00. Sharp."

He looks at Sherlock's profile as the detective stares upward at the ceiling.

"Who and what is Jonathan's?"

Sherlock continues to look up. He doesn't answer but holds out one hand, lazily. John stares at him. The hand remains suspended in air. John stares at the hand. The hand does not move, but the fingers beckon, ever so slightly.

John sighs, bends over to carefully place his new laptop on the floor, stands and crosses the distance to the sofa, then places Sherlock's mobile in the outstretched palm. Rather, he slaps the phone down on the outstretched white palm – hard. Long white fingers close over the phone.

"Really, John.  _Jonathan's_  is de rigueur when it comes to men's –"

"English please. I don't care if it's – Oh. This is for the wedding, er, outfits."

_Outfits._

Wedding  _outfits._

That does it. Sherlock turns his head to regard the love of his life, who stands in front of him, utterly clueless in all matters sartorial, clothed in an ancient, thoroughly worn pair of jeans, loose where they should be loose, and nicely tight across the important bits and a very tight, short-sleeved, black tee shirt. He glances downward. John is barefoot. Sherlock idly wonders how the tight jeans can possibly accommodate boxers. He looks again. Well, obviously, they can't. Therefore, John stands before him in jeans, the aforementioned black tee and nothing else. Except for one dog tag. Period. End of data input.

John has chosen to - Sherlock's mind palace provides the correct phrase - "go commando."

His groin tightens. His gaze rakes over the simple shirt again.

The black tee hugs John's chest in a fit of jealousy, displays the lean pectorals and muscles of his arms very nicely indeed, and dips in ever so slightly at the doctor's trim waist. Sherlock's eyes widen slightly. Has he see John wear this shirt before? And if so, how could he have forgotten this rather important piece of his love's wardrobe so quickly?

He cannot take his eyes off the tight black tee. This simple piece of clothing may be one of the world's finest uses of cotton he has ever encountered. Seriously, whoever designed, stitched and sold this remarkable shirt should be celebrated in song or have their name engraved in marble. Possibly both. The detective's eyes roam over John's chest again and his pupils darken ever so slightly.

The morning sun glances in and salutes John's hair, transforms it to a beacon of white-gold silk.

John crosses his arms determinedly over his chest and regards the other man while mentally kissing the morning's short-lived peace and quiet goodbye. He had hopes of keeping Sherlock to himself today.

 _Well, that hope has already been shot to hell,_  John thinks.  _"Jonathan's. Shite."_

Sherlock's gaze rakes over John's form, his hand opens and he drops the mobile on the floor next to him. He beckons again. John comes closer and bends over, without uncrossing his arms. His warm breath huffs out over Sherlock's face.

"Yes, your Worship? You rang?"

"Come here, you idiot!" Sherlock's long fingers get a firm grasp on the tight shirt and he pulls John down into a very satisfying, early morning kiss.

"Off," he mumbles against John's soft lips.

" _Off_  ? Yes. Yes, you are, just a bit. But I don't mind. Kinda used to it by now." The doctor continues to nuzzle against the amazing lips under him.

Sherlock groans. "I meant the shirt, you total imbecile. Off. Now. This instant."

John kisses him one more time, then pulls back, albeit reluctantly. "Can't. Sorry. Just going out to take the Harley for a spin before things get too hectic on the roads."

Sherlock regards the doctor as if he's gone mad.

"John, this is London.  _Lon - don_. Things, as you so succinctly put it, are already 'hectic' on the roads and have been for roughly the past 300 years, give or take another couple hundred."

John grins and runs a hand through his hair. "Sorry, love. But hold the thought. The open road beckons – or what passes for it here in  _Lon-don,_  as you say."

He turns but one quick hand reaches out and yanks him backward. He falls across Sherlock's body with a muttered "oomph."

"Not going anywhere, my good doctor. Not now. Perhaps not ever. Depends on how long that shirt holds out." His determined hands begin to rub against John's skin over the cotton and to grasp – other – areas of John's anatomy, so nicely presented to him.

John twists around in his love's embrace, grinning like a fool, and ends up stretched out over Sherlock's long body. He dips his head and begins to kiss his way along the pale skin, so beautifully displayed by the loose confines of the blue silk robe. His capable medical hands get busy with the edges of the robe.

"Hmm? Do I take it, Mr. Holmes, that you like this particular shirt?"

Kiss. Nuzzle. Warm breath.

Sherlock's hands tighten over John's back and arse. His fingers dig into the ancient jeans in the more sensitive area of the doctor's upper leg and thigh area. His thumbs begin to rub back and forth, up and down along the ancient denim. Truly, these jeans are a work of art. Nearly as remarkable as the Tight. Black. Tee. He quickly revises his opinion of John's sartorial sense.

John is a fucking genius when it comes to selecting casual clothing.

He shuts his eyes and hums slightly as John continues to kiss his neck and shoulders, then turns his head to the left as the good doctor moves down slightly to lick his way across the pale sternum. His reply is uttered in a deep velvety tone, wrecked by desire.

"Yes, John. I honestly think that shirt is the finest thing you own. Which isn't saying much, granted. Still - You are not allowed to take it off. Ever."

"Ever?" John ignores the insult and licks one of the tiny moles on Sherlock's neck, then kisses the area and moves on to the next. He lifts the simple ball chain draped around the marble neck, moves the single dog tag to the side, then determinedly begins to suck a small mark on the pale skin.

"Ever?" he repeats breathily.

Sherlock groans. His fingers tighten, continue to dig into John's lean arse and thigh muscles. Something begins to harden between them. Whatever it is, rapidly becomes very hard. Intrusive even.

John grinds his hips slightly and –

Make that two  _somethings._

"Let me rephrase the statement. I am the only one allowed to remove this shirt from your person. Such as now."

Sherlock's long fingers insinuate themselves between the hem of the shirt and John's warm skin.

He begins to tug the black material upward, with the good doctor's full cooperation, when the text chime rings.

"Damn it."

John kisses the pale neck. "Ignore it," he whispers.

Sherlock's breath comes in gasps now and he really must adjust his position, just a bit, or suffer irreparable damage to certain areas of his anatomy. And the wedding night so soon too.

"Can't John," he groans. "Might be –" he tilts his head back as John's warm tongue hits a most sensitive part of his throat. "…a case."

"To hell –" John kisses his way up and down the pale beautiful neck, "with cases. To hell with everyone. Tell them to sod off." He licks at the base of the gorgeous neck, then his bright head dips lower.

John groans slightly as his erection becomes an issue. He moves his hips so as not to suffer permanent damage. And the wedding night so soon, too. These damn jeans are going to have to come off. He begins to reach one hand down to insinuate it between his and the other man's taut body, attempts to tug at the zipper. Shite. Too tight. He's going to have to stand up to do this. He begins to shift his weight.

The text chime sounds again.

Sherlock's eyes open and he tilts his head to regard the dark blue eyes in front of him.

"John—"

John groans. He ducks his head into the hollow between gorgeous chin and equally gorgeous shoulder. "Sodding hell," he whispers against the gloriously damp skin.

He gives the pale skin one more determined lick, then climbs off his love and stands up, attempting to rearrange parts of his anatomy.

Sherlock never takes his gaze off John but reaches out with one hand and retrieves the mobile where he dropped it earlier. He holds it up in front of his him, between his eyes and John's, thumbs the screen. Said eyes widen.

He lowers the mobile slightly, looks over it at John, as the text chime sounds a third time.

"Dead body, John. Dumped outside Bart's."

John regards him steadily. "That's the best place for it."

Sherlock returns the gaze.

John grimaces. "I actually hate you at this moment."

"No, you don't. Just think how –" Sherlock glances up and down his love's tight form, nearly vibrating now with frustration, considers his own _growing_  problem, then shakes his head.

"You may have a point. Hold on a sec."

John's dark blue eyes glare.

"You hold on. You have that damned robe on, which means you, basically, have nothing on, and I'm being slowly strangled by my own jeans."

Sherlock's fingers begin to fly over the keys. He talks as he texts.

"Really, John. Your problem is most easily fixed. Come here." He types again, hits SEND. "Must I do everything?"

He drops the mobile on the floor again, then looks up at John and smiles lazily.

"Told them we're on our way. Traffic is, of course, horrid this time of morning. Not to mention this infernal Jubilee mess. We might even be unavoidably  _delayed_. They've promised to hold it for us."

His gaze rakes up and down John's body and zeroes in on his Army doctor's groin. And its rather remarkable bulge.

John must be in utter torment in those jeans.

Good.

Sherlock allows his gaze to travel upward to his love's dark blue eyes, gone nearly navy with desire.

"Now where were we?" he asks with all the innocence he can muster. He holds out a hand as John steps a bit closer. Long dexterous fingers reach toward the jeans zipper.

John stares down into the amazing eyes, sees the pupils have grown huge and dark, and smiles evilly as his hand bats away Sherlock's questing fingers. His own hand finds and slowly pulls the zipper downward. He watches as the detective follows his deliberate movements. Sherlock's pupils grow even larger. And darker.

Good.

"I think we were discussing my clothing," John says with obvious intent. "Or lack thereof."

With a bit of difficulty, he yanks the jeans down, freeing what is a seriously beautiful erection, kicks loose from the confining denim and then with one smooth pull, yanks the black tee shirt up and over his head.

John tosses the shirt across the room, and stands in front of Sherlock, his fists loosely bunched. Momentarily pulled down by the jeans, his cock, rigid and insistent, springs back to attention and actually nudges the good doctor's flat stomach.

A slow grin plays over John's open face.

Sherlock's breath catches.

He begins to fumble with his robe tie.

**OooOooO**

_Anthea, Got a minute?_

_DS_

**Of course. How's it going?**

**Is Mrs. H behaving herself?**

**AJ**

_Everything's fine._

_I have a question._

_DS_

**What is it, Deborah?**

**AJ**

_Am I eligible for hazard pay?_

_DS_

**LOL**

**AJ**

_I was being serious, Anthea._

_DS_

**Oh.**

**AJ**

**OooOooO**

Outside the flat, Sherlock glances up and down the street. John, who knows it is an utter waste of time to even attempt to flag down a taxi at this time of morning, stands back, his arms crossed over his chest. He watches the other man. And shakes his head.

He sticks his left hand in the pocket of his jeans and fingers the keys to the Harley.  He goes back inside and rolls the Harley out of the entryway, as quietly as possible. 

The tall figure, usually a virtual taxi magnet, stands in Baker Street and watches as cab after cab passes, every one full up with passengers.

John grins.

"Bloody hell, John." Sherlock rakes a pale hand through his dark curls. "This is – just stupid!"

John laughs. "Well, that was well put."

"Oh shut up, idiot." Sherlock looks up and down the busy street. "Since you find this infernal situation so funny, what is your plan to get us to the crime scene?"

John moves in front of Sherlock and dangles the Harley keys. "Sherlock, we have our own transportation, right here."

He moves to the bike, straddles it and glances at Sherlock. He dons his helmet and holds out the extra one to the detective.

"Get on the bike, Sherlock. I can have us there faster than any sodding taxi. It'll be a lot more fun, too."

The detective considers the Harley, looks from the bike to John's grinning face. And then at the proffered helmet.

And shakes his head vigorously. "Are you insane? Do you really mean to navigate London streets on this _thing_?"

John stares at Sherlock, and his eyes widen as he considers the words – and the incredulous tone of voice.

Understanding dawns.

"You've never – Sherlock! Are you telling me you've never been on a motorcycle before?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow and he stands back from the Harley and plunges his hands in the pocket of his short jacket.

"That is exactly what I'm telling you, Doctor Watson. And we'll stand here and bloody well wait for an available cab."

John looks up and down the street, quite deliberately, then back at Sherlock. He raises one blonde eyebrow.

"Looks like you're in for one hell of a wait," he says. "Well, I'll see you there then." He inserts the key and his hands grip the clutch and accelerator.

"Wait! Are you  _abandoning_ me here?"

John sits back on the leather seat and stares at the other man.

"Sherlock, it's perfectly safe. I promise not to crack your skull on the pavement – here or outside Bart's. Just get on the damned bike."

Sherlock shakes his dark curls.

"Oh for the love of – Fine. Wait for your taxi. I'll text you when I get to the crime scene. Although Anderson, in all his fucked up glory, has probably utterly ruined it by now."

There is a flurry of movement as Sherlock grabs the extra helmet and is seated behind John before John can finish his sentence.

He smiles to himself, calls over his shoulder, "Put on the helmet, strap it under your chin, then put your hands around my waist. And hold on, 'kay?"

"John –" Sherlock's voice is slightly muffled and John resists the urge to look back. If the great brain can't figure out the proper way to wear a helmet. He shakes his blonde head.

"Okay there, you?"

Long fingers reach, tentatively, around his waist.

John sighs. He turns his head and raises his voice to be heard over the traffic, which if anything, has increased in the past five minutes.

"Sherlock, for fucks' sakes, grab my waist, nope, harder than that, lean against my back, and hold on to me, okay?"

"Okay, John."

His love's weight settles more firmly against his back and ten rigid fingers grab him tightly around his waist. John smiles. "That's good. Now just remember to lean into the turns."

Sherlock clears his throat. He lean against John's back and bends his head toward his soldier. "John, when you say 'lean into the turns' – "

"Never mind. Just do what I do, when I do it. And Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"I promise you, you're going to love it."

"Okay, John. Perhaps we should, after all, wait a few more moments for –"

John turns the key, starts the Harley's engine, and roars off down Baker Street.

Behind him, Sherlock's eyes widen, as he holds on to John for dear life.

Unnoticed by both men, Mrs. Hudson stands just outside the open door of 221 Baker Street, and watches as the Harley disappears into traffic. She shakes her head and goes back inside.

**OooOooO**

John never understands how Sherlock hears the text chime while he's on the back of the Harley but hear it he does. He holds onto John with one arm and holds the phone up in front of his nose. Then leans over John and yells in the doctor's ear.

"Body was dumped outside back entrance. Anderson is ready to have it moved!"

John nods. His right hand responds, the Harley leaps forward. Startled, Sherlock drops the mobile into his pocket and grabs John's waist. His eyes widen.

And slowly, he begins to grin.

Moments later, at least it seems that way to Sherlock, they roar around to the back entrance of Bart's. A small crowd surrounds something that lies on the ground.

Sherlock sees the covered body and mentally groans. "Idiot. He's already contaminated the scene!"

"Calm down, Love. Wait until we see what's up."

"John, everything is up, except Anderson's mental attributes."

John stops the Harley well outside the crime scene and he and Sherlock nearly fall off it, laughing together.

"We can't giggle. It's a crime scene," John admonishes the detective.

"Technically, John, it's a body dump."

The detective unsnaps his helmet and imitating John, snaps the ends back together and drapes it over the handles of the Harley. He grins at his Army doctor, who grins back at him.

"But John! You were 100% correct. That was exhilarating."

"Told you. In fact, your Mum said almost the exact same thing."

Still talking, the men stride up to the small group. John automatically reaches in his pocket for paper and pen.

"For god's sakes, why don't the two of you get matching jerseys or something," Anderson says snidely.

Only the very real fact of Sally Donovan's death keeps John from slugging the repellant man. That, and he's not certain if the two of them, Anderson and Donovan, were still a couple when Sally died. The last time the doctor spoke with Sally was when he met her for lunch - three months ago? They spoke of James Bond novels, and of Yard events and when the conversation turned serious, John took a chance on their growing friendship and told her then that she was too good for Anderson. He expected her to punch him in the jaw. Or at the very least, get up and leave their table. Instead, she looked him in the eye and quietly said, "I know. And you're right, John."

John glances at Anderson, then around at the med techs. Lestrade is nowhere to be seen. He doesn't question it, but flips his notepad to a clean page.

Sherlock ignores Anderson totally and pulls out his pocket magnifier. He bends over and pulls the edge of the sheet back. Anderson comes up behind him, his arms still crossed over his chest.

"Right, Freak, took you long enough."

John's lips tighten, but he takes slow deep breathes and keeps his eyes on Sherlock. The detective stands over the body, clothed, young male, perhaps 19? And stares.

Sherlock looks around, makes eye contact with John and jerks his head slightly.

John nods. He pulls a pair of exam gloves out of his pocket. He snaps the gloves on, then bends over the body.

"Already determined time of death _, Doctor_  Watson. But be our guest. We got nothing better to do."

Sherlock and John both note the emphasis on the 'Doctor' but neither of them comment. John's back stiffens but he continues to ignore Anderson. He gently turns the head, thumbs one eye open. Stares. Then he presses slightly on the neck, up under the chin.

After a quick exam, John lifts one hand and stares at the fingernails. He raises the hem of the torn tee shirt, glances at the exposed abdomen, then finally leans over and sniffs the dead lips.

John nods. He turns over one pale arm, then the other. And frowns. He glances up at Anderson, who continues to stand, over him, his arms crossed.

"I'm going to pull off one of the trainers and socks, okay?"

Anderson raises an eyebrow. He shakes his head. "If you're asking if it's okay with me that you continue to waste our time, hell, no, it's not okay. But since the two of you more or less have Lestrade in your back pocket, be my guest!"

Anderson turns and walks back to the two med techs. Sherlock glances over and notes a stretcher sits ready. He wonders how Anderson convinced them not to move the body. Then he dismisses it as unimportant.

John unties and yanks off one worn trainer, then pulls off the sock. He bends over the toes and nods, apparently satisfied. He looks up at Sherlock, then stands, pulling off the gloves as he does so. Sherlock comes to stand over the body and the two men make eye contact.

John nods again. "Pay attention to the toes, Sherlock."

He stands back from the body while the detective gets to work. It doesn't take long. John has his notebook out again and writes quickly as Sherlock does his thing. He fills page after page with Sherlock's deductions.

Just as he finishes, Anderson walks up again, his hands in his pockets.

"Finished yet, _Doctor_  Watson? We don't have all day here."

John flips his notebook shut, drops it in his jacket pocket. And regards Anderson as he stands in front of him.

"Okay. Let's have it," he says. Both men stand in front of each other, Anderson's hands in his pockets and John's arms crossed over his chest.

Sherlock looks up from the corpse at the tableau. And frowns.

"John?"

"In a minute, Sherlock. Got a bit of a situation here," John says determinedly. He stares into Anderson's eyes. Neither man blinks.

"The only situation we have here,  _Mister_ Watson, is that of a former Doctor acting as if he still has any medical credibility."

"Right." John's hand curls into a fist and he takes a step forward.

Anderson blinks.

"Okay, the two of you. That's enough. Anderson, back off." The D.I.'s gravelly voice comes behind them.

Anderson stares into John's dark eyes. Then turns on his heel and walks back to have a word with the med techs.

Greg Lestrade comes up to Sherlock and John. John's eyes widen. The D.I. looks like hell warmed over.

"Greg? What  _is_  it?"

Lestrade just shakes his head. He looks over at Sherlock. "Anything that can help before we take the stiff in?"

"Cardiac arrest brought on by overdose," John says. "Most likely heroin. Injection marks in the toes. Sherlock has the rest of it."

"In the –" The D.I. turns to regard his own people. "How did you lot miss this?" He shakes his head in exasperation.

John feels the faint tremors as he talks to Lestrade. His eyes widen. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

If the D.I. notices anything, he doesn't indicate it. He nods his thanks at John and walks over to stand next to Sherlock.

John leaves them to it and hurriedly enters Bart's. He makes his way down the hall.

John opens the first door he finds, which is one of the small rooms used for training. Tables, chairs, a chalkboard, a credenza. He shuts the door, then collapses in one of the chairs, huddled in on himself. The pain is less than it was. The tremors more short-lived.

" _Soon,"_  John thinks. " _Soon. And fucking hell, I should not be allowed on the Harley."_

He lowers his head to his crossed arms and waits out the tremors. He hears the door open and assumes it's Sherlock. He lifts his head.

"Jesus Christ, as if it's not bad enough he's a fucking poof, he's a bloody addict, too. I mean look at the man. Just look at him."

One of the med techs stands in the doorway, incredulous.

"What the hell did you just call Doctor Watson?"

Anderson stands behind the med tech, who moves slightly into the room. Anderson looks over at John. The two men's eyes meet. John's arms are wrapped around his midriff as the tremors finally begin to subside.

_Jesus Fucking Christ. Perfect. Just bloody perfect. He's going to have to fight both of them._

"John?"

Sherlock comes up behind the two men and John grits his teeth.

" _Please, God, don't let Sherlock hear this. Things are going so well. He's been so – easy - lately. Please, do this for me."_

The med tech lifts his chin in Anderson's face. "You're the one who said he lost his medical license, that he's nothing more than an addict."

He looks over at John's shaking form and sneers. "You were right, Anderson. Just a fucking drug addict. What in bloody hell does Lestrade want with this lot? The madman of London and this, his toy –"

The obnoxious man never gets the chance to finish his sentence.

John sees Sherlock's eyes.  _Oh god!_

The detective pushes himself forward, his face as dark as John has ever seen it.

Blurred motion.  There is a large smacking sound, the tech goes down, groaning. John watches as the tech struggles to rise, one hand raised to his chin, already a deep angry red.

"What the fuck are you on about!"

John's eyes widen.

Then Sherlock is in front of him, kneeling, with one warm hand on John's forehead.

John looks from the unbelievable sight of Anderson, still with one fist clenched, as he stands over the tech on the ground, cursing.

John turns his head slightly to look into Sherlock's pale eyes.

"What just happened?" he whispers.

"Can you stand, John?" Sherlock asks.

The doctor nods and the detective puts a steady hand under one elbow and helps him to his feet. He puts one arm around John's waist to help hold him upright.

Sherlock turns to find Anderson standing a few feet off. The two men stare at each other. Sherlock inclines his head, ever so slightly and Anderson's eyes widen, and then he inclines his. It's the barest of movements, but Sherlock notes it.

Sherlock walks John by the tech, who has finally struggled to his feet, to lean against the wall, as he stares murder at Anderson.

They are several feet down the hall when John hears –

"Hey, Freak!"

Sherlock's back straightens and he turns slowly, John still in his embrace.

Anderson holds up his mobile. "Just called a cab for you. Figured Doctor Watson didn't need to be riding the bike just now."

There is no deliberate slurring of the word 'Doctor.' Sherlock nods his thanks and turns again with John toward the door.

Lestrade brushes by them, glances them over and frowns. "John, you okay?"

The doctor nods. He straightens and Sherlock lets his arm fall from his Army doctor's waist. "I'm fine, Greg. Leaving the Harley here for now, okay?"

Lestrade nods slowly. "Okay. I'll have someone collect it. If you can't come get it, Joe can bring it round later."

"Thanks, Greg."

Lestrade nods again. "John. Sherlock. Thanks for coming out." He looks down the hall and frowns. "What in bloody hell!"

Sherlock leaves him to it and takes John outside.

In the cab, on their way home, John is quiet. He looks out his window. After a while, he turns his head. Sherlock's hand fidgets with his mobile, as he stares out at London as it passes by their window. The detective is clearly agitated.

" _Of course he is. He didn't get to deck that arsehole. Anderson did it for him. Sherlock's mind is blown. To be honest, so is mine."_

John smiles gently and places a warm hand on Sherlock's neck. The detective turns his head to look at his Army doctor. His face is extraordinarily pale. His eyes a pale blue frost. John frowns slightly, then his hand pulls the other man to him. Sherlock bends his head toward John and the doctor plants a kiss in the dark curls. His hand roams over the line of stitches along the back of the dark head.

"These getting tight?" he murmurs.

Sherlock nods. "A bit."

"Good. Means they're healing."

Neither man discusses the incident at Bart's. John goes back to looking out the window.

"We have to be at this  _'Jonathan's'_  in a few hours," John says quietly.

Sherlock shuts his eyes, still remembering the vicious words slung at the man he loves. He feels sick. And angry beyond words.

"John – perhaps we'd better call and reschedule for next week," Sherlock says. The detective's hand grips John's tightly. He looks at the doctor, his countenance stony.

"Maybe that's a good idea," John agrees. He pulls out his mobile with his free hand.

**OooOooO**

Deborah groans. She hangs up with Doctor Watson, places her mobile on the desk and puts her head in her hands.

She wonders if Mrs. Holmes has something a bit stronger than tea. Then she wonders if the men can be persuaded to elope.

_No. Mr. Holmes would have thought of that already. Bloody hell!_

**OooOooO**

**221B Baker Street**

**Later the same day**

"I'm taking it out Sherlock, if you'll just hold still."

"It's too tight, John, it bloody well hurts!"

"You're a big baby, you know that?"

"John, just shut up and get the damn thing out."

"I will if you'll Just. Hold. Still."

John expertly clips the last of the sutures out of Sherlock's skull, drops it in the small bowl next to the detective's elbow. He then leans over and plants a kiss along the neatly healed line of stitches.

"There. All better."

"If you say so," the detective grouses. Suddenly he reaches up and back, grabs John's left forearm, then swings the doctor around in front of him. He leans up and John leans down and their mouths satisfactorily meet in the middle, to the enjoyment of all concerned.

"Ummm. It does feel better. Thank you, Doctor Watson."

"You are welcome, Mr. Holmes. Honestly, Sherlock, as many times as you've been in hospital, sometimes you act like –"

Sherlock's hands reach for his Army doctor's waist. He tugs slightly until John stands between his two open legs, right up against his, er, growing concern. "Act like a what, John?"

John's warm hands grab the bony shoulders and he tilts his head for another satisfying mashing of lips.

"A bloody kid. No, don't move. Give me your mouth again."

John's hands leave the shoulders, take their position on each side of the perfectly symmetrical face, tilts it slightly, and zeroes in on the lush lips one more time.

"There." He lifts his head and brushes a curl from in front of the crystalline eyes. "Payment in full."

Sherlock shakes his head. A pang shoots through John as he realises that once again, he has not availed himself of the opportunity to get his love to his favorite barber.

"Damn it," he mutters.

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "Problem?" His hands continue to kneed into the warm skin above John's hips. His thumbs begin to inscribe slow, lazy circles over the black and white striped cotton jumper.

"No. Just – you need a haircut. You look like a ruddy pirate with those long curls and I keep forgetting when we're out to - oomph!"

Sherlock's hands readjust and he literally pulls the good doctor into his lap. John sighs and leans back against one long arm, as he looks into the amazing eyes.

"You love pirates. Besides, anyone would say you have a haircut fixation, Doctor Watson. And since when does the NHS accept snogging as payment for medical services rendered?"

John brushes the errant curl back again and his tone of voice alters.

"Since they kicked said  _Doctor Watson_  out of the fold, that's since when," he says quietly. He smiles into the pale eyes. Sherlock's arm tightens around John's shoulders. His long fingers press lightly on the back of John's neck, insistent, and John obediently leans forward until their foreheads touch.

"A problem soon to be remedied, John." the detective breathes into John's mouth. "I have not been idle. In the meantime," Sherlock straightens and John can swear he sees a wicked gleam in the crystal eyes. "I seem to have captured myself a prisoner of the soldierly persuasion. Hmm, wonder if I should make you walk the plank?"

John grins. "So I'm your captive now?" he says lazily. His hands begin to fiddle with the buttons on the deep wine shirt. The top button is already open. His sturdy doctor fingers loosen and pop open the next two.

Sherlock bends closer to him and speaks in a low, breathy tone, "You are now held hostage on the good ship Sherlock. And must pay for your continued existence by –" He whispers into John's right ear.

John giggles. Which makes Sherlock giggle. His right hand caresses the skin just under the striped jumper.

John whispers back. "What did you say I have to do and how often? And do meals come with that?"

Sherlock grins. But before his insistent right hand can make any more inroads into John's warm skin, both men hear the bell ring – twice – and then the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Hudson speaking with someone.

"Boys! Delivery! Oh my word!"

The sound of muffled thumps underscores her exclamation. Followed by the sound of –

John sighs and looks at the other man. "Someone's on the steps, Sherlock, let me up."

"Now that you're my captive? I don't think so, my dear Captain  _Wat-son_. Where's my sword?"

"I appear to be sitting on it. Sherlock, there's a time for silliness, but -"

Dark curls shake in disagreement. "Au contraire, mon Capitan, not until you pay the forfeit."

"I'm not kidding, Sherlock, someone's coming. Oh, bloody hell, they're here."

Both men stand suddenly and John keeps his back to the entryway as he tries to hastily rearrange his clothing. Sherlock chuckles and takes a few steps forward to speak to the slightly flustered deliveryman, little more than a teen really, who flushes a deep scarlet and doesn't know where to look.

"Er, delivery for Doctor John Watson. Several boxes. Where do you want them?"

Sherlock signs for the delivery with a flourish, and hands the stylus back to the embarrassed youth.

"Anywhere up here is fine, as long as we can get round them when we need to."

"Right. All right, then. Be right back."

The flustered teen turns and makes his hurried escape, nearly falling down the steps in his haste.

John comes up behind Sherlock. "What was that all about? And why did he say my name? I haven't ordered anything – oh." His eyes widen and he hurries to the stairs. "Be right back, Sherlock."

"John! I know what they're bringing up – oh for gods' sakes!"

The detective runs one hand through his long curls, decides that John might have a point about the long overdue haircut, then crosses over to his chair and sits down to watch the show.

Downstairs John stands with their landlady and watches as box after box is brought into the hallway, seven in all. The teen then bends, picks up two at a time and begins to struggle upstairs with them.

John looks at Mrs. Hudson, who shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head.

"Mrs. Hudson, have they –"

"Not yet, John. I've been on the lookout for it and I'll let you know as soon as it arrives."

John nods and smiles. He isn't really worried but will feel a lot better when the violin is delivered, safe and sound.

In the meantime, the two of them stand back as the young man trips down the stairs, balances two more of the boxes on top of each other, and thumps back up the steps.

"What's all this?"

"John, your guess is as good as mine. Well, I've just put the kettle on. Fancy a cup?"

John shakes his head. "Love one. But, no thanks. In fact, I was just going to take Sherlock out and get his bloody hair cut."

"Good. Long overdue if you ask me."

The landlady watches as the young man comes back down the stairs and struggles upward with another two boxes. That leaves one box. John sighs, bends, lifts the rather heavy container and goes up the steps.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

She just shakes her head and goes back into her flat.

**OooOooO**

"Sherlock, what have you done?"

John stands in front of two opened boxes, holding a rather thick medical textbook in his hands. He glances in the open box at his feet, then bends to rummage through the second one. The remaining five boxes are stacked neatly to the side of the door.

"Does every one of these contain medical texts?"

"I would think that would be obvious, John." Sherlock stands, crosses to the desk, yanks open the top drawer, and withdraws a manila file folder. He crosses to John and hands him the folder. "Here. You're going to need these forms."

John tosses the heavy book back into the first box, shakes his head and opens the folder. He glances up at the detective.

"And just exactly how many doctors are going to have to have sign off on all this and where, exactly, will we find –"

Sherlock goes into their kitchen area, pulls up his stool and perches himself in front of the new microscope. "No worries, John. I believe we know a Doctor Margaret Oakton, psychological consultant, rather well known in her field. And Doctor Galen Dennison, world renowned addiction psychiatrist."

He glances up at the doctor who still stands surrounded by textbooks. "And of course, Doctor Thomas Field. World renowned, er, Holmes family physician. Now your family physician, by the way. Who will be calling you any day now."

"Calling?" John bends to place the folder on top of the open box of books. He turns to look at the other man. "And why, exactly?"

"Really, John. You're going to need appointments for blood work and urine analyses and –" he waves one hand in the air. "Let Thomas tell you what you'll need."

"I bloody well know what I'll need, Sherlock, but I just wondered why in hell you thought I would need all these damn textbooks."

Sherlock shakes his dark curls. "Just covering all the bases, John."

John rubs a hand across his forehead in exasperation. "Sherlock, this isn't even needed to revalidate. Hell, I'll have to talk to someone about all this."

"Stamford." The detective adjusts a knob on the microscope.

"Stamford? You spoke to Mike about all this?"

"Hmm. Well, maybe not the books. But he's waiting for you to call him – when you're ready, John."

He twiddles with another knob.

John stares at him, then slowly turns and look at the boxes of textbooks. He shakes his head.

"I'm not even going to ask where you got all these."

"Probably for the best, John," the deep baritone mutters.

Silence stretches between them.

John looks at the back of the dark curly head.  _To hell with all of this. Later for this_.

He snags something off their sofa, walks back into the kitchen area and comes to stand behind the detective. John leans over the detective's back.

"Just how – engrossed – are you in whatever you're examining?"

He knows better than to disturb the detective when he's deep in a case, but there is no case and as far as John knows, no pressing need for scientific data – at least, none gleaned from said microscope.

The dark head lifts. And turns slightly. "Not engrossed at all, actually." He waits.

"Good." John smirks and brings his hands up. He holds the tie to Sherlock's blue robe.

He carefully wraps the tie around the white forehead, ties it in a careful knot and lets the ends dangle over one ear. Then he whispers into said ear again. "I do believe that you forgot this, Captain Sherlock."

Sherlock turns and grins. "I do believe you are right, my dear prisoner."

He stands and pulls John to him. Then bends his head to kiss John's forehead, both eyelids, corner of his mouth. "Am I to take it, then, that you are prepared to pay that forfeit?"

John grins. His hands push aside the dark crimson shirt to expose the pale chest. He lifts his head.

"Oh, sorry, boys. Honestly, the door shuts _and_  locks. John, a word?"

Both men groan. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson. You're right. We forgot to lock the door."

John mentally kisses the light atmosphere goodbye. He accompanies their landlady downstairs.

Sherlock watches them go. He does not remove the robe tie from around his dark curls.

Downstairs, John looks the violin over. "Excellent."

"They did a beautiful job of packing it," Mrs. Hudson murmurs. Her cheeks are flushed a becoming pink, although it's certainly not the first time she's walked in on her boys while they were engrossed with each other. And it won't be the last. She shakes her head.

"Do you want me to keep it here?"

John looks up from the violin. He holds a folded card in his hands. "Yes, please. If You don't mind, Mrs. Hudson."

"Not at all."

The two of them gently repack the violin and bow in its case.

"It's beautiful, John."

John shakes his head. "Honestly, Mrs. Hudson, I have no idea if it is or not. I just hope it's something he can use – until we can replace the Stradivarius."

She purses her lips as she regards the good doctor. "John," she says gently. "I don't know a lot about violins, but I don't think 'replacing the Stradivarius' is even possible."

He reads the card quickly, then places it back into the packing crate. "You're right, of course."

John straightens and considers the violin in its case. Suddenly, he feels defeated. He lifts his blonde head to look into the landlady's sympathetic gaze.

"Funny. I was so excited about this. But you're right. It was a Stradivarius. And this is just some ruddy violin I saw in a bloody window on a bloody case. It's probably garbage. What in the hell was I thinking?"

"John." Mentally cursing herself for a fool, she pulls him into her embrace and circles his shoulders with her warm hands.

"He's going to love it. And I should have kept my big mouth shut."

He relaxes into her embrace, the warm hands of the only mother he's ever really known. "Don't know about that," he says gruffly. He pulls back and smiles into her eyes. "But he can use the darned thing to practice. And that _was_  the point. His first physical therapy session is next week. He's going to need something."

She nods and smiles at him. "Sherlock will love it, John. I promise you." She lifts one steady hand to his cheek. "You're still coming back from all of this, John. Give yourself some time."

"Okay. If you say so." He attempts to smile back at her.

Back upstairs, John shuts and locks their door. He leans his forehead against it, suddenly drained.

He wonders when his old energy will come back. The medical part of his brain tells him the exhaustion is normal, as are the occasional mood swings and bouts of residual depression. The soldier part of his brain tells him to stop grousing and just get on with it.

He wishes desperately that the  _John_  part of his brain would kick in. Can't he be just  _John_ for a little while, before it all starts up again? He wants to be happy. And he wants to be happy with Sherlock. Not all the time, that wouldn't be normal for them. Not normal at all.  _But damn it_  – his eyes fill and he impatiently brushes a hand across them before he turns to face the other man.

"Captain Watson?"

" _He's a ruddy jungle cat. He's standing behind me right now and I never heard a thing."_

At the gruff, yet playful tone of voice, John straightens and his heart rate increases. Silly times have been so scarce of late. And Sherlock was so –  _easy_ \- a few minutes ago.

He turns slowly, hoping …

Sherlock stands a few feet behind him. He fixes the good doctor with his gaze, then slowly reaches up and removes the robe tie from around his forehead. Without taking his eyes off John, Sherlock's clever fingers find and untie the knot, then he holds the ends of the tie in both hands and snaps it taut between his two hands.

"These interruptions have got to stop, my dear prisoner."

He glances around deliberately, then crosses to the coffee table and nudges it to the center of the room with one foot. He looks back at John.

"I do believe that some sort of disciplinary action is called for on this ship. And in front of the entire crew, as a lesson in, er, prisoner obedience." He looks down at the table, then back up at John.

John's gaze goes from the coffee table, now sitting more or less in the center of their living area, then up to the crystalline eyes, gone a beautiful pale green.

Sherlock snaps the tie again and walks slowly toward John, smiling evilly.

John's eyes widen.

**OooOooO**

A short while later. "You know, John, technically I do not believe actual pirate captains ever made anyone walk the –"

"Don't ruin this for me, Sherlock."

"Okay, John. I mean, prisoner Wat-son. Now about that plank …"

**OooOooO**

"Yes, I understand. I'll be there shortly."

Gregory Lestrade hangs up his mobile. He stands, back to his desk, and stares out the window, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

It's a beautiful day in London. From his office at the Yard, Lestrade looks down at the traffic, at pedestrians walking along, at his city going about it's business on a gorgeous spring day.

He sees none of it. He shuts his eyes and wonders if it's possible to suffer a broken heart twice in one lifetime.

He fears he's about to find out.

**OooOooO**

* Line shamefully lifted from Bob Clark's  _A Christmas Story_ , Ralphie's musings on "an official Red Ryder carbon action 200 shot Range model air rifle with a compass in the stock, and this thing which tells time."

Thanks go to Jodi2011 for her request for John in a Tight. Black. Tee. and for giggling.


	5. Chapter 5

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 5**

**ONE STEP CLOSER.**

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street -** **24 Hours before their anniversary**

**VISION III**

John is dreaming.

If finding yourself thrust into Hell unawares qualifies as a dream.

John pulls Sherlock's upper body into his embrace and cradles the dark head against his breastbone. The disheveled curls smell like salt water, like the sea.

"Sherlock – come on."

The mercuric eyes open slightly and Sherlock glances upward at John's dark eyes, tries to smile.

When it comes, his voice is a rough whisper. Talking is a torment, but somehow he manages to get the words out.

"John….you didn't think, when the time comes… that you would be … the one ... to go first?" The mercuric eyes close and John strains to hear the words, mumbled in an utterly wrecked rough whisper. "There are many things I can do, John Watson, but that is not … one of them. I cannot…I refuse…"

His voice trails off and John shuts his eyes to black out the colors that make his brain ache. Doesn't work. The black of his vision is overshot with shades of red. He re-opens them to look desperately at the closed eyes, the pale skin, sunburned now, and John never thought he'd live to see the day that Sherlock Holmes was touched by the sun. It's all wrong. Hateful. His arms hold onto something uniquely beautiful, born to thrive in the cool greens and violet washes of England, not this harsh climate.

He looks down. Black curls; pale face tinged with sun and with growing fever…and here and there crimson, brilliant splashes of it. A horrible color…too much of it… and in the wrong places.

"Please, Sherlock, don't do this."

The detective nods – the barest of movements - but does not answer.

John's vision blurs. He manages to hold onto the dark head with his left arm and sweep his right sleeve over his eyes.

"Right." John's head lifts and he glances around at their surroundings. "Enough of this shite."

He gets his legs under him, then gathers, lifts, and finally manages to stand with his love's body in his arms. The taller man is surprisingly heavy, for all his thin lankiness. Sherlock's head falls back, but John does not allow himself to glance down at the pale face.

If he looks at Sherlock now, allows himself to feel the sticky warmth under his hands – he will definitely lose it.

The soldier kicks in and John Watson stands, determined. He begins to carry Sherlock up the rock-strewn hill, away from –  _best not to think about that right now. Later for that._  His back, thigh and shoulder muscles scream at him. He ignores them.

His head aches abominably. He ignores this pain, too.

As he struggles against tangles of brush and vine, the voice starts up again. The same familiar haunting echo that has accompanied him all his days, seemingly his entire adult life.

As usual, it has nothing constructive to offer.

" _When the time comes…time comes … TIME ! "_

John jerks awake, heart pounding, palms, chest and thighs damp with sweat. He struggles to untangle his legs from the sheets and from six feet of consulting detective, whose myriad limbs seem to take up most of the available sleeping space.

"John?" Sherlock's curly head lifts beside him and John fights the urge to turn and pull his love into his embrace.

_Fuck this dream shite. All right. No more._

_The game is on._

He switches on the bedside lamp and reaches for his mobile.

"John? What are you doing?"

"Calling Maggie Oakton," John says grimly. "Go back to sleep, Sherlock."

The detective props himself on one arm to glance at the bedside clock, then at John's determined thumb poised over the contact list.

"John, I might point out that it's 4:30 in the morning."

"And this is why she gets the big bucks, Sherlock."

John presses the call button.

Sherlock throws off the covers and gets out of bed. Totally nude, he pads to their bureau and begins rooting for clothes.

"Sherlock?"

"Awake now. Things to do. Give my regards to Oakton."

Sherlock leaves their bedroom, his arms full of clothes.

Before John can answer, he hears a familiar voice, tinged with sleep. He nods.

"Maggie? John Watson."

**OooOooO**

Mycroft Holmes is a patient man, when he needs to be. In this, he is the polar opposite of his younger brother. And when something – or someone – affects him or his, he is more than willing to wait, in order to get at the facts.

And then to act.

Mycroft sits at his desk and reads the final report of the incidents at the Crandall mansion. At his elbow is a folded newspaper that Anthea has just brought him. He slips the newspaper into his briefcase; he will read it later at the Diogenes while enjoying his single malt. The fact that he thoroughly enjoys being caught up on recent events, while at the same time being the unsuspected causation behind so many of them, is a fact that never ceases to fascinate those who work for him.

Right now, he pulls the two-page report to him and reads the particulars on how a multimillion pound mansion residing in the more affluent part of the countryside was reduced to a rather expensive pile of rubble in a matter of minutes. And how the body of Lord Bennett Crandall, obviously deceased, was found in the ruins of what had once been a very fine library indeed.

News of Lord Crandall's "terminal illness" has been whispered about for some time amongst the upper realms of London society, (said rumor springing from Mycroft's contacts) preceding his apparent withdrawal from said society. It is assumed the member of the House of Lords, unable to face his diagnosis, had simply cracked and taken steps to ensure he didn't die a painful and lingering death from his disease. The fact he put to use an unexpected knowledge of explosive devices and subsequently took his cousin Gianetta's domicile with him when he died has been tabloid fodder for a few weeks.

The long-standing feud between the two cousins was common knowledge for some time. But a family feud is one thing. The planned and most deliberate destruction of a beautiful home in the environs of Ascot is something else entirely. A member of the House of Lords turned vigilante and suicidal uni-bomber ? Britons ate it up with their tea, so to speak. But it has since been eclipsed by the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and now the growing fervor over London's hosting of the summer Olympics.

Fame, it seems - even that of the spectacularly violent aristocratic variety - is fleeting.

Mycroft slips the two sheets of paper back in the file folder to his left, then pulls another sheet toward him. He reads the few sentences. Then reaches for his pen and calmly signs what amounts to the execution order for Miles Jackson, the murdering bastard responsible for planting the bomb in Anthea's car. And for planning the wholesale destruction of the Holmes mansion. The fact that his rather balmy "associate" had no idea she was secreting the devices in the wrong home entirely, does not negate the fact of Jackson's betrayal in Mycroft's eyes.

Treason is treason.

That no one will ever be wise to the fact that it was Jackson, and not Crandall, who planned the destruction of the mansion is beside the fact. Both men were members of the same murdering, traitorous cabal. Justice has and will continue to be served.

He very much wants to be the one to put the bullet in Jackson's brain, but since the son of a bitch has so conveniently provided them with a venue for death by "accident," Mycroft is content to wait. Once Jackson is on his long-planned Amazon vacation … Things. Will. Happen.

Rather dangerous place, the Amazon.

He slips this sheet in the folder as well, a rather boring memorandum noting that Jackson has made a few undesirable political acquaintances, will be out of the country on vacation in South America soon and might  _bear watching_. Period. End of statement.

But those who read it will know exactly what it means. And certain of Mycroft's agents will be dispatched accordingly.

Marvelous thing, government memorandums. They can be so - ambiguous.

Mycroft recaps his pen, lays it to his left, along his mobile phone and sits back to enjoy his steaming cup of assam.

His leg itches. Mycroft idly scratches along the healed stitches, then bends to pull up his trouser leg to regard the pale line caused by the discharge of Sebastian Moran's eager bullet along Mycroft's unwilling calf.

He scratches again, then lets his trouser leg fall and sits back once more with his cup of tea.

And not for the first time, thinks about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard.

The D.I. interests Mycroft. They are both professionals, sworn to protect the British public; both involved in the enforcement of the law. And of course, they have a shared history in that both Lestrade and he have sat vigil at Sherlock's hospital bed when the detective nearly died from an overdose. Sorry, make that two overdoses.

It is Mycroft's experience that caring for a child – in this case, Sherlock, who at any age remains little more than an errant teen in Mycroft's eyes, and always a royal pain in the arse – may serve to create a bond of kinship between all parties involved.

Besides, he enjoys the Detective Inspector's company. And they are long overdue for that drink.

The fact that said Detective Inspector rebuffed his social overtures a few weeks earlier does not dissuade Mycroft. At the time, the D.I. was dealing with rather pressing issues, most of them caused by the Holmes family. And it has not escaped Mycroft that he most certainly owes his continued existence to said Detective Inspector's marksmanship abilities – as well as to those of John Watson.

Since asking John Watson out for a drink would be tantamount to a request to be strangled by his own brother, if not knifed outright, he hopes for the next best thing: a drink and some quiet conversation with Greg Lestrade.

He pulls his mobile to him. Then taps one fingertip on the case. No. Instead, he will stop by New Scotland Yard on his way to the Diogenes. After speaking with the D.I., perhaps he will, after all, have company at his club. If the Detective Inspector will agree to speak with him, that is. One never knows.

But Mycroft Holmes is a patient man. He can wait.

Having made his decision, Mycroft requests his car be made ready. Then finishes his most excellent cup of tea.

**OooOooO**

**221 B Baker Street**

**09:30 am**

His text chime sounds. John looks up from sliding the clip into the Browning. He glances at his watch and frowns. Sherlock went out hours ago and has not responded to any of his texts. This had better be his errant wild child now. It will save him hours of searching, and having, possibly, to shoot some as yet unknown perpetrator.

He checks his text.

And groans.

_Lose something?_

_GL_

**Where?**

**JW**

_Holding cell_

_Come collect him before I have him shot._

_GL_

**Fuck! Not even going to ask.**

**JW**

_Best not, John_

_GL_

**Leaving now.**

**JW**

_And John?_

_Call off Mycroft before he has ME shot._

_GL_

**Will Do.**

**Bail?**

**JW**

_Not if you hurry._

_GL_

**On my way. Kit?**

**JW**

_Wouldn't hurt._

_GL_

**Double Fuck**

**JW**

 

 

John grabs a few supplies from his first aid kit, shoves them in his jacket pockets, then sends a hurried text to Mycroft.

**NSY**

**Call off the hounds.**

**JW**

He doesn't wait for a response but rushes down the stairs.

Outside the flat, he briefly considers a taxi, gets a glimpse of the morning traffic, and shakes his head. Lestrade's patience will only extend so far. A minute later, John straddles the Harley, pulls on his gloves and dark glasses and helmet, then turns toward the glossy black door with its brass numbers – 221B - and gives a determined military salute to the surveillance cameras.

He roars off on the Harley. His text chime sounds as he pulls away. He ignores it.

As he expertly weaves in and out of traffic, John thinks of the next day.

" _Saturday,"_  John thinks. " _Auspicious."_

Hopefully, he can sort out whatever mess Sherlock has managed to get himself in to, and things will then quiet down. They might enjoy their special day in peace, although John doesn't hold out a lot of hope for the  _quiet_ part of that wish.

Sherlock has been too  _easy_  for too many days. Something was bound to break. And now apparently it has.

He wonders how badly Sherlock is hurt. Can't be too bad or he'd be in hospital. Still -  _Christ!_

John leans forward over the handlebars - and guns it.

He picks up and loses two different patrol cars. But apparently the word is out. Once they radio in his plates, they veer off and leave him alone. No one else bothers him.

The bike eats up the traffic and John eases into the flow. If it weren't for the urgency, he'd ride her out to the country and open her up.

The morning breeze ruffles the fringe of his shining white-blonde hair and more than one pedestrian - male and female – turns to watch the trim male figure flash by on the shining black motorcycle.

Completely unaware of the arrhythmia he leaves in his wake, John puts everything out of his mind, except getting to Sherlock, as quickly as possible. His compact body melds with the Harley's custom framework.

The roar of the motor becomes a counterpoint to John Watson's accelerated heartbeat.

Then it happens. Somewhere between Baker Street and New Scotland Yard, John's rather tight arse becomes one with the leather bike seat, the bike's clutch and accelerator mere extensions of his capable hands. His thighs straddle the motor and the roar vibrates through his muscles, bone and blood.

" _Where have you been my whole life?_  John mentally asks the Harley.

The Harley-Davidson, in response to his utter delight, goes faster, just to make John happy, you understand. The Harley, the same as John's guns, suspects that John deserves to be happy and frequently. It obliges by responding beautifully to his request for speed.

John grins. " _Thanks!"_  he thinks.

In reply, the Harley outdoes itself. Its cylinders purr like a well-tuned race car – or Sherlock Holmes in full mating rut.

The simile is not lost on John.

Traffic flies by. Horns honk. Text chimes sound. Hearts beat faster.

He ignores it all. The morning sun backlights clouds of spun sugar, slants off glass store fronts and the windshields of taxis and flashes off the reflecting surface of his dark glasses. London becomes a blur of color in his peripheral vision.

John laughs out loud. He can't help it. He feels fantastic.

He feels the rush of adrenaline like the pop of champagne bubbles in his veins.

All too soon, John parks the Harley, tugs off his gloves and hooks the shades in his chest pocket, then strides determinedly into NSY. He is met at the front entrance by Joe Rodriguez, who nods at him.

"This way, Doctor Watson. The D.I. wants to have a word before you collect Mr. Holmes."

"It's John, and I know the way, Joe, but thanks. How's Lori?"

Joe glances at the doctor, shakes his head in exasperation. "She's fine. This wedding thing is a bit much. Thank God her sister is staying with us and helping sort it all out."

John sighs. "Know what you mean."

Joe raises one eyebrow, unaware of the barrage of similar wedding headaches that has descended upon the inhabitants of Baker Street.

John enters the D.I.'s office and frowns. His friend looks even more tired and worn than he did when John saw him just 24 hours earlier. He thanks Joe, who shuts the door behind them to afford the two men privacy.

John stands just inside Lestrade's office, arms crossed over his chest.

"Greg, what has he done now?"

The D.I. leans back in his chair, and fidgets with a pen, tapping it against his chair arm.

"Get to that in a minute, John. We're releasing him into your custody. Didn't even book him."

He indicates the seat in front of his desk.

John crosses over and sits. Both men look at each other.

"John, I – " the D.I. runs a hand through his graying hair. "This is difficult for me but I have to tell you both. We can no longer –"

"I'll tell you, shall I?" John says quietly. "You can no longer ask us to crime scenes, or rather ask Sherlock, if I accompany him. Not until I revalidate."

Lestrade's eyes widen. He nods. "Shoulda' known he's rubbed off on you. That's just it exactly, John. Shite, I didn't even know how to bring it up. If word gets out we're occasionally helped by a doctor who is no longer -"

John shakes his head. "It's okay, Greg. Not your fault. I was expecting it." He leans forward. "Are you in trouble because of the past week?"

"Naw. No worries. We didn't put either of you in the official reports. Just used what Sherlock – and you – gave us. And I'm damned sorry about that, John. The two of you certainly deserve any and all credit we can give you. That last call? You were 100% correct. Heroin overdose. Second OD this week. The other was cocaine. I don't know what gets into the heads of these kids."

The D.I.'s gruff voice trails off and he stares into space for a moment, still fiddling with the pen. John considers asking him, again, what in the hell is wrong, but decides against it. He and Lestrade are friends. If the D.I. wants to confide in him, he will. He clears his throat.

"Greg?"

"Right." Lestrade opens a file folder, shoves a single sheet of paper toward John, who takes it, raises one blonde eyebrow, then hurriedly jots in the small notepad he carries with him. He shoves the sheet back and nods at Lestrade.

Lestrade stares at the blotter in front of him for another moment, then stands up. "Okay. Guess that was all I had to say. Let's go get him."

John frowns. "Greg, aren't you going to tell me what happened?"

At the door of his office, the D.I. turns back and smiles grimly. "He assaulted one of my med techs, John. Man's being treated at Bart's. But since there were  _extenuating_  circumstances, and witnesses swear that the sob swung first, it falls under self-defense."

"Not the same med tech who—"

Greg nods tiredly.

"The same one Anderson decked. Frankly, he's an obnoxious bastard. None of us can stand the man. And he's been in trouble before. There have been prior incidents. But this," he shakes his head. "If Sherlock had stopped there, John, I'd have put him in a taxi and sent him home. But he had to mouth off."

"Was there ever any doubt? Verbal threats?" John asks.

"You might put it that way. And the same witnesses heard him. I had to pull him in, John, if only to give him a chance to cool down a bit."

"What in hell did he do to set the man off?" John asks.

He's angry with Sherlock, goes without saying. At the same time, he can't help but feel a twinge, just a twinge, mind you, of smug satisfaction at the fact that his crazy boyfriend went after the man who –  _well, best leave it at that,_  John thinks.

Lestrade regards John evenly. "The worst possible thing he could do, John."

John's eyes widen. "Oh, God. Not -?"

Lestrade nods. "Yup. He deduced him. Then just talked to him, in that maddening, soft as silk way he's got, going on and on until you want to get a fork and jab it through your own eye. Insult, innuendo, you name it. The witnesses tried to remember all of them but I lost track after "imbecilic homophobic cretin who shouldn't be allowed out of his cage without a keeper" and something about his sister –  _and_  his mother – and that, of course, is what started the fight. Only took two and a half minutes. Gotta be a record."

John nods. "Could be. Took him nearly five minutes of going on at the Lancaster serial killer before the bastard tried to slit his own throat. I got the cuffs on him just in time."

Lestrade sighs. "That's our boy. Improves with age."

"Is Sherlock hurt?"

"Naww. A bit roughed up. Sherlock let him land one. Deliberate, that. Then he swung back. And broke the man's collar bone, in two places. I've seen Sherlock fight, John. He's damn good. Missed his calling as a boxer. Always thought so. But the witnesses say that particular move - John, you've got to show me that. I know he got it from you. Couldn't be anyone else taught him that."

John grins.

In the hallway, Lestrade stops in his tracks and John nearly bumps into the man. "John, that reminds me. Keep him in that room for a few minutes, okay? We've got something to return to you."

Mystified, John agrees. "Okay, Greg."

They stop in front of one of the smaller rooms used for interrogation. The D.I. shakes his head and walks down the hall. John takes a breath, and turns the knob.

"— and, obvious, here, she's having an affair with the nanny. Earrings are a dead giveaway. And the red lipstick. Didn't anyone notice she refreshed it, just before the nanny brought the kids down to say goodnight to Mum and Dad? Now the third photo – well, she's not alone. Looks like dear hubby has something going on the side, as well. Honestly, I don't see how anyone couldn't see what is going on. Even you lot. It's all here, plain as the – "

The detective breaks off and looks over at John. He stands behind a long table, his hands full of glossy photos. Two officers are with him, both of them with their arms crossed over their chests. Both of them clearly exhibiting signs of headache. John can see the slightly dilated pupils and creased foreheads from the door.

Sherlock's eyes light up and he tosses the photographs onto the table.

"Ah, John. Excellent. About time you showed up. Can we leave now?"

John looks at the taller man and moves inside the door. The doctor deliberately crosses his arms over his chest. The detective looks at the crossed arms. And then at his Army doctor's face. He nods.

"Ah. You're upset with me."

"I'd say that was an obvious deduction, Sherlock."

John crosses to the table, yanks out a chair and sits. He grabs his notebook from his jacket pocket, flips open a page, glances at the other man, then starts reading.

"Assault." He looks up at Sherlock. "Dismissed because witnesses state it was an obvious case of self-defense."

Sherlock nods. "Entirely correct, John."

"Not finished here, Sherlock." He ticks off another item.

"Verbal threats, violent ones. Directed against the other party involved."

His dark eyes narrow as he regards the detective. "Dismissed because same witnesses state, and I quote here, Sherlock, "The bastard had it coming."

Sherlock nods. "I'm glad to see, John, that Lestrade still—"

"Not finished, Sherlock." John ticks off the first two lines.

"Stalking, with intent to- " John looks up. "Stalking, Sherlock? What the fuck did you do?"

Sherlock clears his throat and looks at John. The two officers look from the tall detective to the short blonde man in the chair, who clearly is the power in the room, back to the detective.

"I might have  _waited_  for the gentleman in question to finish his shift and then approached him in order to ask him a few harmless questions. Nothing onerous, John."

"A few questions, Sherlock? Apparently, he went berserk and tried to break your neck!"

"Ridiculous assumption, John. He never came close. There might have been a bit of a misunderstanding on both our parts."

"He's in Bart's, Sherlock, with a broken collar bone. Broken in two places. Nearly shattered."

Sherlock starts to grin, sees John's serious face, then squelches it. He ducks his head.

"Actually, John, I'd hit the bastard again after what he said to you."

John flips the notepad shut, drops it in his jacket pocket. "Sherlock, we're big enough to take a few insults. We  _will_  be discussing this later."

"Does that mean we can leave now?" The detective straightens up, both hands in the pockets of the short jacket.

"In a minute. Lestrade has –" The door opens. Both officers look up, grateful for the interruption. Any interruption.

"Hey, guys. Thanks for waiting."

Joe Rodriguez comes into the interrogation room. He carries a small cardboard box, a bit the worse for use. He crosses in front of John, then tilts the box over the interrogation table. At least a half- dozen or more sets of handcuffs, in various states of wear, tumble out onto the table, in one noisy heap.

"The D.I. felt it was only fair we return your property to you."

Dead silence.

John stands up, glances at the pile of metal restraints and clears his throat.

"Actually, those aren't all ours –"

"Obviously, John, you have not been paying attention."

Sherlock leans over and deftly begins to separate out individual pairs of handcuffs.

"Ours. Ours. Ours again. Definitely ours." He holds up a shining pair, obviously brand new, and both Joe and John raise an eyebrow. The other two officers just shake their heads.

"Sergeant, can we leave him in your—"

Joe nods. "It's fine. He's being released in Doctor Watson's custody."

"Excellent." Sherlock holds out a hand.

One of the officers glances at Rodriguez, who nods. The officer sighs and hands the detective his mobile phone. Sherlock says nothing but pockets his phone with mild irritation.

Both officers leave, shaking their heads. They both have their mobiles out and begin to send texts about the incident to their fellow officers before the door even closes behind them.

"Well, John, we can take our property and –"

"Sherlock, you know as well as I, that all these cuffs aren't ours."

"John –"

Joe leans over, roots through the tumbled pile and comes up with a set of cuffs that are lined with what looks like spongy black velvet.

All three men stare.

John turns crimson and he and Joe turn as one and look at Sherlock. The detective just looks smug.

"Well, clearly, we made use of what we had at the time."

"Clearly," Joe says calmly. He tosses the restraints onto the pile, then holds out his hand. Sherlock places the brand new cuffs in Joe's hand. Joe nods his thanks, slips the property of the NSY into a pocket, then scoops the remainder of the cuffs into the box.

He hands the box to John, comes up with a receipt and pen.

"Sign here, please, John. Just to show we returned your property."

None of them discuss the cuffs with the velvet lining. John, still beet red, nods his thanks, accepts the box and jerks his head toward the door.

"Come on, You," he barks.

"Okay, John."

Sherlock walks out the door, his hands still in his jacket pockets. He has a frankly insufferable smirk on his face.

Joe watches them go, grinning. He shakes his head. Then pulls out his mobile and sends a quick text to Lori.

 

**Sweetheart, you are not going**

**to believe this one.**

**JR**

 

In the hallway, John turns to Sherlock. "Okay, let's see them."

The detective looks downward into his love's dark blue eyes.

"John –"

"Nope. You're not taking another step until I see your hands. And your neck."

"I assure you, my neck is—"

"Right. Your neck is just fine, Sherlock. It's a beautiful day outside, warm as toast and you're wearing that damn scarf, which by the way, isn't even yours. Musta' nicked it off of someone here."

"The D.I. was kind enough—"

"Fine. Whatever. The gents is down here."

The doctor walks determinedly down the hall and the detective trails behind.

In the men's room, John tosses the box onto the counter, where it settles with a clank, then starts pulling supplies out of his jacket pockets. He lines them up next to the sink. Alcohol wipes; gauze; tape; bandages; antibiotic cream; a tiny can of clear, spray-on bandage. Painkillers.

Sherlock stands next to him, then takes his left hand out of his pocket.

"You know the drill. Turn it over so I can see the back. And let's see the right one, too."

Sighing dramatically, the taller man holds out both hands, then slowly turns them over so John can see the backs. The skin of both hands is scraped, with streaks of what can only be dried blood along the pale knuckles, now gone a rough red. There is a particularly ugly welt on the back of the detective's right hand. And a small hematoma, that seems to grow as John looks at it.

"Great. Just great."

John turns on the cold water and guides both hands under the spray. He uses the thumb of his left hand to gently rub the blood away. Finished, he nudges the tap off, then reaches for a paper towel.

As he dries the pale hands, he looks up at Sherlock.

"Okay. So you broke his collar bone."

"Apparently, John."

"You don't have to be so smug about it."

John expertly applies ointment to most of the scraped knuckles, then applies spray-on bandage to the worst since bandages clearly will not adhere to the area. He covers the hematoma with soft gauze and a bandage and shakes his head while he does it.

"Use that move I showed you?"

"Obviously, John. Man can't hit worth toffee."

"What are you? 12? Okay, scarf and jacket off. And turn down your shirt collar. You're not fooling me, you know."

The doctor's voice brooks no argument.

Silently, the other man complies. He tosses the jacket down, then reaches up to turn down his shirt collar.

John shakes his head. "Open the top buttons. No. Never mind. I'll do it."

He reaches up and slides the top two buttons open. Then the third. He gently parts the dark blue shirt.

"Jesus, Sherlock! You let him land one."

The curly head nods. "Had to, John. It had to look like self defense, else the D.I. –"

"Yes, all right. Hold still."

The doctor wets some more towels, then with care, begins to pat the pale neck. A rather horrid bruise mars the left side and John frowns. "That is going to be a gorgeous shade of greenish-purple in about 24 hours."

He checks for broken skin. Finds none.

"Swallow for me."

"John. Obviously, I am fine. None of this is necessary."

"Shut it, Sherlock."

He pulls out a tiny pocket torch, then flicks it at the pale eyes.

"Okay, you know this bit."

Dutifully, Sherlock follows the light with his eyes.

"Good. Now turn your head to the left. Slowly."

Sherlock obeys his Army doctor, turns his head one way, then the next. Finally, he bends his dark head toward John and John's warm expert hands roam along the back of his head and neck.

"At least you didn't re-open the head wound, thank Christ."

He nods.

"Okay, here."

He shakes two paracetamol out of a packet, then hands them to the other man.

"Fountain's outside. Button up, grab your jacket and let's get the hell out of here."

"Okay, John."

"Sherlock, wait."

He turns at the door. John comes up, puts a hand on each side of the pale cheekbones and tugs gently. Sherlock ducks his head and John reaches up and kisses the soft lips. "Thanks." He nods against the detective's mouth. "Not necessary, but thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock grins. "Any time, John."

In the hall, he swallows the pills, then chases them with water from the fountain.

They are arguing again before they leave the Yard.

"And this is not okay, Sherlock. You're going to have several horrid bruises, your hands are roughed up and did you even remember that your first session with Dr. Cordoa is next week?"

The consulting detective nods.

"Not germane to the issue, John."

"Not germane to the – for fucks sake! Come on."

They stand outside in the brilliant sunshine. "John! Excellent! You brought the bike."

"Yes, yes I did, Sherlock. Fastest way to get here."

The doctor glances at him. "Are you all right with this or should we leave it here and get a taxi."

The dark curls shake up and down. "I'm fine, John. No worries."

And at that, the detective unsnaps the extra helmet and swings his long legs over the back of the Harley-Davidson.

John just stares at him. "I wouldn't mind it so much if I got a break now and then. Here."

He shoves four sets of cuffs into Sherlock's hands. The detective distributes them between his pockets. John drops the remaining set in his jacket pocket not currently filled with medical supplies, tosses the empty box on the ground behind him, pulls on his own helmet and dark glasses, then straddles the bike.

"Mind what, John?" Sherlock has to raise his voice to be heard. "And I think I need a pair of dark glasses if we are going to continue to—"

"Having an overgrown kid to take care of," John Watson says and his right hand twists and the bike pulls away into traffic. "We'll get you glasses later this morning. We have a stop to make first."

"Hair cut!" he shouts over the roar of the engine.

Sherlock leans up against his love's back, his long fingers grip John's waist. "What?"

"I said – hair cut! Next stop!"

"Okay, John."

The Harley roars off into traffic.

**OooOooO**

Deborah checks off her agenda, thoroughly satisfied with the progress they have made.

Date and venue set. Tick

Fittings. Next week – come hell or high water. Tick

Cake recipe and design decided upon and ordered. Tick.

And the fact that Mrs. Holmes has engaged a professional wedding planner to take care of the reception tickles her no end.

Best man? Make that two Best Men. Or Best Women. Or Best - She pauses over the list and leaves this area blank. Sherlock and John will have to advise her on this one. She shakes her head over the logistics of same-sex marriages and goes on.

Wedding vows. She leaves it blank.

Announcements – At printers. TB delivered shortly.

Address list for said announcements – Deborah frowns. She expected several hundred guests. But a thousand? Dear God. Do Sherlock and John Watson even know that many people?

She glances down the guest list – all 21 pages of it - provided by Mrs. Holmes. She recognises most of the names culled from the crème de la crème of British society and aristocracy and highly doubts either of the men would recognize most of these names. Well, Sherlock undoubtedly would. In actuality, she guesses that the detective could not care less who attends his nuptials.

Isn't there a Molly someone and a Mike something or other? She jots the first names down and leaves the rest of it blank.

When she comes to John's section, she writes in Harriet Watson and guest and Martha Hudson and guest? John's parents are dead, so no worries there. In retrospect, she feels this is a bit callous on her part and mentally apologises to the good doctor.

And what was John's former sister-in-law's name? Clara something or other. No, that might be a Bit Not Good. Still, she'll leave it up to John.

She taps her Biro against her teeth for a second, nods, then writes in Greg Lestrade and Guest. And Lorilei Hansen and Joe Rodriguez. She pairs the two doctors together – Margaret Oakton and Galen Dennison. Then pauses again. Finally adds Anthea and Jacob Lynn and lets it go at that.

She leaves several pages blank. Presumably Captain Watson will want to invite several of his friends from his unit. And possibly those of Mycroft's agents he has befriended.

Her text chime sounds and she picks up her mobile. And stares.

**Ms. Sakai –**

**Kindly inform my son and Captain Watson**

**that I expect both of them on hand here**

**next weekend for a logistics session.**

**They should pack for a three-day stay,**

**beginning next Friday evening.**

**Please inform Mrs. Robinson so she can plan**

**accordingly. Mrs. R. will take care of notifying**

**the household staff.**

**Thank you.**

**RH**

Deborah pulls her purse to her and rummages for an aspirin.

**OooOooO**

Later that day, dark curls cut, dark glasses purchased, Sherlock goes out while John sits at the desk and types away at his blog. Sherlock says he has a quick errand to run and after making the detective promise not to: a. assault anyone b. stalk anyone or c. send anyone to the hospital, John agrees to let him leave the flat without accompaniment.

John glances up as the detective comes bounding up the steps and when the doctor sees what Sherlock has in his hands, his dark blue eyes widen. He seriously thinks about texting Mycroft to see if the world as they know it has come to an end. John always figures Mycroft will be in the know when it comes to the apocalypse, long before the occupants of 221B have a clue.

He does not call Mycroft – but it's a near thing.

John stares.

Sherlock did the shopping.

The detective comes up the stairs, two plastic bags in each hand, goes straight into their kitchen, dumps the bags on a corner of the table – a corner being the only bit that is available and not currently covered with what John usually refers to as "questionable items" – and then as the Army doctor continues to stare in utter disbelief, he puts the milk in the fridge, tosses various cans into various cupboards, throws the bread on the sideboard, next to the drying dishes, and after glancing around the kitchen, opens the cupboard again and tosses a box of PG tips on the highest shelf. Wayyy in the back.

Right. The top shelf. Where John cannot even see them, let alone reach the box of tea.

But the good doctor doesn't even care about any of that. Well, other than the inescapable fact that he usually drinks Twining's English Breakfast and you'd think his flatmate would know this by now, and it doesn't matter anyway, as he's perfectly willing to accept PG Tips as a fallback. And he can always stand on a chair to reach said teabags, when Sherlock isn't around to make snide comments.

But none of this matters. No.

What has John's eyes staring and his two fingers pausing over the keyboard and his breath catching in his throat, is the fact that SHERLOCK DID THE SHOPPING.

He watches as the detective balls up the plastic bags, looks around the kitchen again, then shrugs and opens a drawer and proceeds to shove the wadded-up plastic ball as far back as he can before slamming the drawer shut.

Then he comes into their living area, glances over at John, grins and goes down the hallway to their bedroom, texting as he goes.

John watches him go, then turns his head to look into the kitchen again. He belatedly realises his mobile is on the desk next to him and he has missed a golden opportunity to record this nearly unbelievable event for future posterity.

He wonders if he can get Sherlock to agree to put everything back in the bags and reenact the – Best not to ask.

Best to just enjoy.

After a few minutes of grappling with the surreal nature of the happening, John shakes his head and goes back to his blog. Just for a moment, he considers posting Sherlock's actions to his website, then decides against it. The detective might – just might – repeat his actions one day and John doesn't want to jinx it.

A moment later, he realises he is gasping and fervently wishes that he could reach the tea without resorting to said chair. He glances down the hall, but before he can contemplate pulling out a chair to stand on it in order to reach said tea, Sherlock comes into the kitchen.

John gives it up as a lost cause and goes to shower.

**OooOooO**

"Excuse me, Sir, but the D.I. isn't available just now."

Mycroft stares at the officer in front of him. He glances at the name tag, then back into the man's determined face.

"I assure you, Officer Cates, is it? That I only intend to take up a few moments of Detective Inspector Lestrade's time. Please tell him that Mycroft Holmes –"

Cates crosses his arms over his chest and regards the elder Holmes brother. He has to look up slightly in order to meet the man's steel eyes.

"As I said, Mr. Holmes, the D.I. is otherwise engaged now. As a matter of fact, he has an appointment and has to leave in just five minutes. But I will tell him you were here."

Mycroft regards Cates. Then inclines his head slightly. "Very well. I will speak with him later. Kindly tell him to expect my call."

Cates turns to watch the tall figure as he retreats down the hall. A moment, then the door to Lestrade's office opens and the D.I. himself comes out. The blinds are already drawn over the glass in the D.I.'s office and he clicks the lights off as he exits.

He looks down the hall, notes the figure as it walks away, and stares.

"Cates, was that –"

Cates nods. "Yes sir. Mr. Holmes. The elder, Sir."

Lestrade nods tiredly. "Thought I heard him. It's okay if he returns, I'll be happy to see him. But not now. Not today."

He glances around the ready room at his officers. The entire room has gone quiet. His people look at him expectantly. Several of them attempt a sympathetic smile. He addresses them all.

"I just want to thank all of you for the kind notes and offers of assistance. I – appreciate it. Really. And I'll let everyone know more when I know it myself."

His people nod. A few of them make noncommittal noises of sympathy. Most of them glance up, then look away, their hearts aching.

"Well." Lestrade clears his throat and regards Officer Cates. "I've got my mobile with me. You know where I'll be."

Cates nods. "Yes sir. Let us know what we can-

Lestrade smiles. Or tries to. "Thanks." He drapes his rain coat over one arm, glances around again and leaves.

Outside New Scotland Yard, Mycroft Holmes sits in the back of the black car and waits for the D.I. to drive past in the rather nondescript Toyota. He leans forward. "Please follow. But at a discrete distance."

The agent at the wheel nods. "Of course, Sir."

Mycroft drums his fingers on the seat next to him. And frowns.

**OooOooO**

John comes out of the shower, toweling his hair, and looks toward their kitchen, where the love of his life appears to be going three rounds with the microwave. He tosses the damp towel toward his chair, misses, and walks into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?"

"Making you tea, John. You like tea."

"Yes, Sherlock. I do like tea. But this isn't tea. Not even close."

Sherlock looks crushed. John holds out his hand and takes the lukewarm mug with its two soggy teabags from Sherlock's grasp. He nods, pours the contents straight down the sink, then dumps the wet teabags in the bin. He fills the kettle, pushes the button then turns.

Sherlock stands there with what John calls his puppy dog expression. John decides to take pity on the man.

"Sit," John commands, indicating one of the kitchen chairs. At the same time, he mentally blesses the fact that Sherlock has conveniently decluttered at least a portion of their kitchen table, obviously as part of the great tea experiment.

Sherlock pulls out a chair, sits. He first temples his fingers under his chin, but when John raises an eyebrow, he removes them, clasps them in front of him on the table. John nods.

"Okay, then." John turns to the shelves, removes a second mug, then rinses out the first and places both mugs together in front of Sherlock. He pulls forward the newly-purchased box of teabags, in this instance,  _"PG Tips, obvious,"_  thinks Sherlock, gathers sugar, two spoons and opens the fridge for milk.

He places all of these in front of Sherlock. The detective raises one eyebrow.

John clears his throat. "The Art of Making Tea, now in session."

Sherlock looks at John and his eyes narrow slightly.

"John, I hardly think we need to waste time on such a —"

"Yes, Sherlock. Yes, we do. You do not know how to make a simple, satisfying cup of tea."

Deep sigh. "John, I just made you tea. And you poured it down the sink."

John looks at him pityingly. "Yes, Sherlock, I did. That's because what was in that cup was not tea. It was, well, I'm not certain exactly what it was but 'mud' comes to mind. Possibly toxic waste. I am going to teach you how to make a proper cup of tea, Sherlock. And you will pay attention."

"Honestly, John, how difficult can it be?"

"Exactly," John says without further explanation.

The whistle sings. John places a teabag in each mug, then turns to the kettle and turns back with the steaming kettle in his hand.

He carefully pours boiling water over the teabags, returns the kettle to the stove. All the while he works, he watches the detective, who watches John's movements with pursed lips.

"Lesson number one," John says, "Always use boiling water. Always. If the world is on fire, if chaos reigns in the streets, if it's the –"

"Sodding Zombie Apocalypse," Sherlock offers.

Dead silence.

John looks at him wonderingly. "How have you not deleted that?" He shakes his head. "Never mind. But I hope the point is taken. Always start with boiling water."

Sherlock watches carefully as John places a small plate between them, takes up one of the spoons, then stirs his tea clockwise, several times. Satisfied with the color, he uses the spoon to crush the bag against the side of the mug. The detective says nothing through all of this, but continues to watch, as John lifts the spent teabag with the spoon and deposits it on the small plate. John adds milk to his mug, stirs, "clockwise," thinks Sherlock.

The doctor then goes through the same ministrations with the cup in front of the other man, presses the teabag against the side, deposits said bag on the plate, adds two spoonfuls of sugar to Sherlock's tea, a dab of milk, then stirs carefully. John sets the mug down directly in front of the detective.

He pulls out the chair opposite Sherlock, sits, then crosses his fingers together under his chin and regards the other man.

"Any questions?"

"A few," Sherlock mutters. Jon nods encouragingly.

"Clockwise."

John looks at him as he raises his mug to his lips, blows. "Clockwise?"

"Yes, John. I note that you stirred the contents clockwise several times. Removed the tea bag. Then added milk – in my case, two sugars – then stirred again - clockwise. What is the significance of the clockwise movement?"

John sets his mug down, takes a small breath, then just looks at his curly-haired love.

"You are kidding, right?"

Sherlock's curls shake. "No. I was watching carefully and each time you –"

"For gods sakes, Sherlock. Only you. Only you would even note such a—"

The doctor runs a hand through his blonde hair in exasperation. He shakes his head, then leans over the table. Without thinking, Sherlock leans toward John. Their lips meet in the middle.

The kiss is brief but satisfying and John briefly closes his eyes.

John kisses his love, then sits back and regards him over his steaming cuppa. He lets his exasperation with his partner dissipate in the late afternoon light that streams in their kitchen window.

"There is no significance to the direction of the stir, Sherlock. None whatsoever. You can stir clockwise, anticlockwise, widdershins, or dunk the bloody spoon up and down if you want, it's all the same to the tea."

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly. "John, technically widdershins is a term that has the exact same meaning as —"

"Oh, for the love of -" The doctor plunks his mug down on the table between them.

"Sherlock, love, just listen. This isn't about making a simple cup of tea. It's about you learning how to make something palatable that I enjoy. I like tea. I drink a lot of tea. You appear to want to please me, right?"

Sherlock nods again, and John feels a bit smug that he finally remembered to get the bloody curls shorn. On the other hand, he rather misses them. The pirate look is a good one on Sherlock.

He shakes his head.  _"Focus, Watson. There's more going on here than is dreamt of in your philosophy."_

Out loud all he says is, "Sherlock, listen. I don't care if you ever learn how to make a decent cup of tea, although it would be nice. Particularly on those freezing-our-arses-off mornings when you insist on rolling me out of a warm bed in the middle of the bloody night to go traipsing off after you to some frozen crime scene. Having a hot cup of tea beforehand helps, it truly does."

Sherlock nods again, eagerly. "All right, John. I was also noticing that you –"

"Sherlock, shut it, okay. Just for a moment?"

Both men remain silent as John sips his tea and regards the love of his life over the rim of the mug. He sets it back down, then reaches his hand across the table. Sherlock puts his right hand in John's left.

"Sherlock, do you want to tell me just what in hell is going on here?" John waves at the kitchen, the table, the cooling mugs of tea with his right hand. He looks into the gray-green eyes and smiles.

"Because none of this, not the tea-making or the rather startling foray into grocery shopping, none of it has anything to do with – well, just tell me what is going on? What are you trying for here, Sherlock, because frankly, you're driving me round the twist."

Sherlock tightens his grip on John's hand and he looks into his Army doctor's dark blue gaze. He swallows and John watches the slight movement of the long pale neck muscles.

" _Dear God, it's just afternoon. And we were at it half the night and all he has to do is move in that way or swallow and I want to throw him across the bloody table and shag him into next Tuesday."_

He shudders slightly and his fingers tense in Sherlock's grasp.

"John, I…I've been trying to -" the detective stops, sighs, fingers the hot mug in front of him with the index finger of his left hand. He glances up at John who waits patiently for him to continue. John nods encouragingly.

"Okay. You've been trying to – what, exactly?" John keeps his voice calm.

"Well, Ms. Hansen said – and she should know, after all and I do concur with her—"

"Sherlock," John's tone is warning. He sips at his mug never taking his eyes off the other man.

"John, I – " Sherlock ducks his head and looks into the mug of tea in front of him. Both men watch as the tip of one elegant finger circles the rim of steaming tea.

Sherlock mumbles something. "Cort u."

John cocks his head toward him. "Sorry? I didn't hear you –"

"I said," the detective clears his throat, clearly nervous now. Intrigued and a little alarmed, John sets his cup aside. He reaches his right hand across and takes both of Sherlock's hands in his. The detective continues to look down. A slight flush marks his cheekbones.

"Sherlock?" he says quietly.

"Court you," the detective manages to blurt out.

Dead silence.

"Court me. Court – Sherlock, who told you that you had to court me? And why, for Gods sakes?"

Sherlock looks up and locks gazes with John. "John, I - that day in St. Anne's, when I asked you to, I asked -"

John frowns. It's so seldom that Sherlock is ever at a loss for words that the occasion seems memorable to him.  _Be careful now_ , John thinks. " _Don't crush the man."_

"Sherlock, are you saying, what are you saying, exactly? I'm a bit at sea here. Help me out, okay?

Sherlock nods miserably. "John, I asked you to marry me."

"And I said yes," John prompts. "And?"

"And…well, so much has happened and you were so – ill – and there were a couple of times I thought that you might actually –"

"Sherlock. I'm fine. And I'm right here. So?"

Gray-green eyes look into ocean blue eyes. And then they drop to contemplate the scarred table surface again. "I – you've been going out with Mycroft's men, just the two times, but still. And you've – we've been very busy lately, and I just felt that maybe you were, that you thought that I –" He raises his eyes to meet John's, and John sees the rosy blush that has spread from the pale neck all the way up to the dark hairline.

His heart melts.

"Sherlock, you've been trying to do things to please me. You think that I might have changed my mind?"

"No, John. Not that. God, no. I just – I wanted to show you that I," Sherlock takes a deep breath and his hands tighten on the doctor's. "I want to show you that I mean – meant - every word I said. That I want you in my life, forever. And I have been trying to show you –"

He tapers off, utterly miserable. Suddenly, he puts both hands in his curls and tugs - hard. "Why is this so bloody difficult?" he groans. He yanks on his hair again.

"Sherlock - Sherlock! Stop it.!" John pulls the his love's strong fingers out of the dark curls.

"John. I can't seem to -"

Utterly charmed, John comes to an instant decision. He releases the other man's hands, rises, then comes round the table and bends his bright head over the dark curls. He plants a kiss over the healed line of stitches where the dark curls are growing back. He inhales Sherlock's scent, spice, musk, expensive shampoo. His warm hands encircle Sherlock's shoulders and back.

The detective leans into John's embrace. He pushes his forehead into the jumper. His breath comes warm over John's chest.

John begins to stroke one hand through the tumbled curls as he attempts to feel his way with words. For all his seeming worldliness, Sherlock is nearly totally at sea with the gamut of human emotion. And now that they are involved in this relationship, well…

John tilts his head and whispers into the dark curls. "There is nothing you have to do, Sherlock Holmes, to keep me by your side. Nothing. Just be yourself. Got that?"

The dark head nods once, slowly. John sighs. He pulls back slightly but Sherlock's hands come up and hold onto John's waist, the long fingers digging into the jumper.

"Sherlock, I don't need to be courted. Although I have to admit, the very thought that this is what you've been attempting to do is – just so damn hot, I want to jump your bones right here, right now on this damn table."

The detective raises one eyebrow, pulls back enough that he can tilt his head up to John's. John looks down into his love's pale eyes. His heart tumbles.

He plants a kiss on Sherlock's forehead. "Later. We're expected at Angelo's. But bloody hell, Sherlock," he pulls back and runs his calloused fingers through the dark curls while he looks straight into his love's wide-eyed gaze.

"Bloody hell, you ridiculous man, I do love you. And I know you love me. And I'm not going to stop you if you feel you have to – I don't know, show me somehow what I mean to you. I repeat. So. Damned. Hot. But it's not necessary. So I have another idea, 'kay?"

Sherlock nods again, his eyes never leave John's.

John smiles. Sherlock grins back. It's nearly, not quite, the blinding cracked grin that causes all the blood cells in John's brain to head south. Post haste.

He smooths the hair back from the elegant forehead. Plants one last kiss against the pale skin, right at the hairline. "Let's start with one simple thing. Learn how to make a decent cup of tea. Will you do that for me?"

"All right, John."

"Good." John steps back, goes round to his side of the table, drinks his by-now cooled mug of tea and places both cups in the sink, his empty and Sherlock's untouched.

"Good," he repeats again. He turns round and leans back against the sink, crosses his arms over his chest and regards the other man fondly. "You can start tomorrow. Now, is there anything else you feel the need to tell me? "

"Actually, yes, John." Sherlock intones, once again in possession of his faculties. He rises and grabs his jacket off the back of the chair. "And the sooner we can eat, the faster we can get back here and work on other things."

John cocks an eyebrow. "Other things?"

Sherlock winds his scarf round his neck and looks at his Army doctor with what John realises is ill-disguised relief. "Yes, John. If I no longer have to court you, and I consider that given your response just now, I can stop with that activity, other than the tea-making, of course, then we can move on to the next item on our agenda."

John straightens up. "Our agenda? What agenda?"

Sherlock nods at him, briskly. "Yes, John. We can move on to the various aspects of the traditional wedding night. I think we can improve on some of those, given half a chance."

He finishes with the scarf and plunges his hands into his pockets. Armor in place, he regards his doctor with all seriousness. "And I, for one, would like to get started on those as quickly as possible."

John's eyes widen. He considers his mad love for an instant, then grins. Sherlock's heart turns over. The doctor comes to stand in front of him and tilts his head back. Sherlock bends forward into the kiss, one much more satisfying than the quick peck they exchanged earlier. He brings one hand up to cup John's cheek, rubs his thumb up and down his doctor's skin, over the faint stubble, which he finds unbearably erotic.

He bends for another kiss. John melts into it, then tilts his head back a bit.

"The traditional wedding night?" he questions.

"Yes, John." Sherlock continues to kiss and nuzzle John's lips, first the top, then the bottom, then both.

"And you think we can improve on – what exactly?" John murmurs.

"Really, John, these things are out on the net. All you have to do is look." The detective tilts his head slightly and plants small kisses in the corners of John's mouth.

"All right, Sherlock. When we return, we can take a look at this list of yours –"

"Agenda," corrects the detective. His long fingers come up and he digs them into the mass of John's hair, tugs his doctor's face back slightly so he has full access to his mouth and chin.

"I stand corrected," John whispers. "A look at our wedding agenda. And see what we can improve upon."

Sherlock nods encouragingly and then repeats one of John's – and Lori Hansen's – favorite phrases back at his love. "Damn straight," he murmurs.

He continues to kiss John Watson into next Tuesday.

John just smiles. And considers humming.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft walks down the long hall, glancing at room numbers as he goes.

And then he is there. The door is partially open.

The D.I. sits in a chair next to the hospital bed, his left hand wrapped round one tiny wrist.

His back is to the hall, or he would most definitely have seen Mycroft standing there in the half-open door. And most probably cross the few feet to the door and punch the elder Holmes in the nose.

Under the circumstances, Mycroft would probably let him.

From where Mycroft stands he can just see the little girl in the bed, her small form seemingly engulfed by tubes and wires, beeping machinery and far too many bags of fluids for such a tiny body.

Greg is whispering in his gruff voice.

"Come on, baby. You can do it. Your old Dad's right here."

"Daddy?"

"Yup. And I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart."

"Can you read to me?"

"If you promise to sleep afterwards, k?"

"I promise." The voice is sleepy, tired. Unbearably small.

"Okay. " Rustle of book pages. " I seem to remember, when last we left Pooh, he and Christopher Robin were -."

"Don't forget Piglet, Daddy."

"Would I forget Piglet? "

"Cause he's my favorite."

"Mine, too. I think Pooh is very lucky to have Piglet."

"Me too, Daddy." Yawn. "Where's Sally?"

"Right here, Sweetheart. I'm tucking her in right next to you."

"Kay."

"Where were we? Right. In which Pooh goes Visiting and Gets into a Tight Place."

"Do all the voices, Daddy."

"No worries. 'Kay, here we go. 'Edward Bear, known to his friends as Winnie-the-Pooh, or Pooh for short, was walking through the forest one day –' "

Mycroft quietly turns from the door and walks back down the corridor. By the time he's outside the Pediatric Oncology ward, he's calling Anthea.

**OooOooO**

John rises early, before Sherlock. Noiselessly, he makes his way to the kitchen and begins to prepare a traditional English breakfast.

He clears their table, making certain not to touch the Erlenmeyer flask, and has just finished setting out plates of fried eggs, sausage and bacon, beans and of course, toast when he hears Sherlock as he comes down the hall.

He turns to pick up two steaming mugs of tea to set them down and misses seeing the detective's horrified look when he sees the plates of food. Sherlock passes a slightly shaking hand over his forehead, stares at the perspiration on his palm, then swipes his hand down his ancient flannel pyjamas. He winces at the smell of the cooked food.

"Happy Anniversary! And eat fast, I've got a surprise for you."

John reaches up for a quick peck, doesn't notice that it is barely returned, then pulls out a chair for his love.

"Sherlock?"

As the taller man stands in front of his love, the smell of food wafts around the detective, mingled with the smell of hot tea.

Sherlock's eyes widen, then fill, and he begins to panic as his entire body suddenly flushes with heat.

"John, I – Oh god!"

And before John Watson can take a step back, the detective bends at the waist – and vomits all over John's shoes.

Horrified, John goes rigid, his eyes as wide as saucers.

"Not exactly the reaction I was going for," he says, totally aghast.

He looks down at his shoes. Then slowly raises his head to look at Sherlock, now beet red, who begins to stammer his embarrassed apologies … and faints dead away at John's feet.

**OooOooO**

 

John's motorcycle scene best read to Iggy Pops'  _Real Wild Child (Wild One)._  I'm just saying _._

' _sky'_


	6. Chapter 6

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 6**

**WHEN DID YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME? – Part One**

_"_ _An illness is like a journey into a far country; it sifts all one's experience and removes it to a point so remote that it appears like a vision."_

_Sholem Asch_ _  
_

**PROMISES: Two grown men – one Total Bastard of a bug. Tea. Toast. Tissues. Thomas Fields, M.D. Thermometers. One common Loo. And** _**Four, VERY Loonngg Days** _ **. And nights.**

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street**

**Their Anniversary Day -**

**2 Hours after the anointing of John's shoes**

"I really appreciate this, Thomas."

John sets the steaming mug of tea down on their coffee table. When he says the word 'this,' he nods at the sofa, and at the six feet of shivering consulting detective that lies there, covered with sheet and blanket. Groaning.

Pitifully groaning.

"Always a pleasure, John. Although I do wish he would go to bed. He'd be more comfortable."

Dr. Thomas Fields shakes down the old-fashioned mercury thermometer, glances at it again, tsks once, and then wipes it down with alcohol. He slides it into its case, and hands it to John, who turns to place it inside the large leather bag that sits on the table, next to the mugs of tea. Reverently, he rubs his fingers along the worn edges.

 _Exactly like his grandfather's_.

He picks up the mug of tea and waits until Fields crosses to Sherlock's chair and sits. Then he follows and hands it to the Holmes family doctor.

"Thanks, John. And when I say 'always a pleasure,' I meant under normal circumstances."

John laughs gently. He retrieves his own tea and sits in his chair, facing Fields.

He looks at the Holmes family physician.

"Oh, he's going to bed all right. Never fear. But if he's in  _there,_ how can we possibly hear his pitiful yelps out  _here_?"

The two medical men smile at each other.

A groan issues from the supine figure.

"John." The normal silken baritone comes out as a hoarse whisper.

John shakes his head, sets his tea down and crosses back over to the sofa. He pulls down the bit of sheet and blanket that covers the normally pale face, now gone a rather brilliant shade of crimson, and brushes a curl away from Sherlock's eyes. He winces when his hand encounters the blazing hot skin.

John removes the cloth from Sherlock's forehead, rings it out in the bowl of cold water on the table, then folds it and presses it gently down on the hot forehead.

"There. Better?"

The pale eyes open a crack and stare upward at John.

"John?"

The doctor bends over the better to hear the sick man. "Yes, Sherlock?"

"Am I dying?"

"No, Sherlock."

"Are you certain?"

"I'm certain."

"Feels like I'm dying."

"You're not dying, Sherlock. But you do have a high fever and I know it's uncomfortable."

"If by 'uncomfortable,' you mean extreme muscle pain – "

"It's the virus, Sherlock. Try to sleep."

"I'm freezing, John."

"That's the fever, Sherlock. We've given you something to help bring it down. Now close your eyes."

"John, you know I cannot abide headaches."

John kneels down next to the detective. He presses a kiss into the dark curls, then whispers so his voice doesn't carry.

"I know, Luv, and I'm sorry. I've pulled the curtains to keep the light out. We've given you something for pain and it will help with the headache, as well. Try to rest and give it a chance to kick in."

John straightens up but one trembling hand grabs his wrist. He bends over the sick man again. The fingers that grasp his wrist are uncomfortably warm.

_God, Sherlock's fever is spiking._

Discounting the occasional mild cold and Sherlock's rather horrific migraines, he cannot remember the detective ever being truly sick in the time they have been together. John frowns and renews the cold cloth _._

The sick man sighs. His eyes snap open.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Sugar bowl."

"Sugar bowl."

"Did you give me anything with sugar in it? Because – "

"I found the thing in the sugar bowl, Sherlock, and I binned it. Poured boiling water over the bowl and scrubbed the hell out of it. And no, I didn't give you anything with sugar in it. You have the flu. Now go to sleep."

"Still freezing, John."

"I'll bring you another blanket until the chills pass. But too many covers hold in the heat."

"I'm never sick, John. I have no frame of reference."

John brushes his hand through the damp curls and renews the cool cloth again.

"You're making up for it now, Sherlock. And yes, this is how the flu feels to everyone."

"Dying, John." The man's voice trails off into a low groan.

"You're not dying, Sherlock. But you're talking nonstop and it's wearing you out. And Thomas is entirely right; you'd feel much better if you'd go to bed, where you can stretch out."

"Not unless you're there, too, John."

"It's cool and dark in there, Sherlock. It'll help your headache."

"Not unless you're there –"

"Fine. We'll talk about it later."

"All right, John."

"Good. Now try to sleep for a bit while I speak with Thomas."

"All right, John."

John tucks the extra blanket in around the sick man and goes back to his chair to retrieve his tea. He sits down, picks up his mug and glances across at Thomas Fields.

Fields smiles softly. He sets his own cuppa down, removes his glasses, folds them and places them carefully in his shirt pocket. Then picks up his mug again.

"Nothing's changed," he says quietly, as he jerks his graying head toward the sofa. And its suffering occupant. "Couldn't talk sense to him when he was a lad and now that he's grown, well …"

"Oh, he'll listen to me, all right," John says confidently. "Besides, who says he's grown?"

The two men grin at each other. Fields drinks his tea and enjoys the companionable silence, in between the overly-dramatic groans of pain.

Still grinning, John lifts his own mug to his mouth, then pauses as the steam from the tea hits him in the face. He looks at the milky surface, frowns, then carefully sets the mug down on the side table, untouched.

Fields looks over at the Army doctor.

"John, do you want to tell me now the real reason you called? You're a damn good doctor. You didn't need me on hand to diagnosis a simple case of influenza."

"Nothing 'simple' about this diagnosis," says the hoarse lump on their sofa. "It's more than obvious that I have contracted an extremely rare disease masquerading as influenza."

John raises his voice. "Simple. Case. Of. Flu."

Silence.

John looks at the older man, then sighs and leans back in his chair. He keeps his tone of voice low.

"You're right. I didn't. Need you to tell me, that is. To be honest, I just wanted to have a quiet word or two. This," John waves his hand at the groaning lump on their sofa, "was just coincidental. And thank you, again, for coming on such short notice. And on a Saturday to boot."

Fields nods and sips at his tea. He regards the former military man shrewdly.

"Not a problem. My London office is not that far away and I'm usually in on Saturday mornings, just to get caught up on paperwork. John, I don't mean to bring up the subject, if you'd rather I leave it alone."

"Truthfully, I need to talk about it, Thomas, with someone other than Sherlock. He's too –"

"Invested?" Thomas Fields asks quietly.

John nods again. "Exactly. And I'm feeling better all the time. Last attack was yesterday and very mild." John glances at his watch. "About this time, too."

Fields nods. "Do they follow a set time?"

"Not really," John says. "But as I said, they've become quite mild. Any day now, I expect them to end. May have already done. No. That's not why I wanted to have a word. I need to ask you -" He hesitates as he hears the front door open.

They both hear the footsteps on the stairs.

John sighs.  _Is anything going to go right on this day?_

"Woo hoo." Mrs. Hudson raps on their open door, then comes into the flat.

Thomas Fields immediately sets his mug down and rises to his feet. "My dear lady. Let me help you with those." He crosses over to take the shopping bags out of her hand.

John turns his head, then winces at the sudden muscle pain. He begins to stand, thinks better of it, and falls back against the cushions with a soft oomph. He calls out, over his shoulder, "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course, John."

John reaches for his mug of tea. Then pauses, with his hand over the mug, as the scent of hot Assam once again assaults his nostrils. His eyes widen. Suddenly, he has an epiphany. He – John Watson - hates tea. He despises tea. Black tea, green tea, tea in any of its myriad forms is an utterly disgusting brew. How has it taken him all these years to notice this? His eyes narrow. He stares at his full mug as if it's the enemy.

Mrs. Hudson follows Thomas Fields into their kitchen and waits for him to deposit the bags on the table. It's a treat to be able to use the table. She suspects that John cleared it earlier, hoping for a rather different outcome to the morning. The remains of his carefully planned breakfast are in the bin.

She opens the fridge and begins to put items away as Fields hands them to her.

"I picked up the ginger ale you recommended," she says quietly.

Thomas Fields nods. "It should help with the nausea."

She shuts the fridge, then opens their cabinet. He hands her cans.

"So the flu, then?"

"Sure is. Wonder where he picked it up."

"There is no telling with these two, Thomas," she says. Mrs. Hudson finishes with the last can then quietly shuts the cabinet. "They're all over London, all the time."

"All the more reason for them to keep up to date on their shots."

He looks at her. "You did have your flu jab, my dear, didn't you?"

She nods. "Every year. Never miss. In fact, John gave me this year's. And the last one, too."

"Excellent."

John is very quiet in his chair. And getting quieter. His head begins to hurt. And his spine. And his -

_No…Please God, just – NO. Not both of them sick at once. Don't do this to me!_

The doctor leans back against his chair cushions and shuts his eyes. If he remains like this for just a few minutes, perhaps gravity will reassert itself and the room will stop spinning.

"All put away, John. Is there anything else I can do to help?" Mrs. Hudson glances from Fields to the back of John's head.

John's eyes snap open. Gravity, apparently, has abandoned their planet and gone elsewhere in the universe to play. In the meantime … he bolts upright and with a mumbled 'scuse me' dashes for the loo. As the door slams behind him, the landlady and the family physician look at each other, then down the hall where the worst is happening to John Watson.

"Oh dear," Mrs. Hudson says. She looks at the glass of iced ginger ale in her hands. She plunks a straw in the glass.

"Quite," says Thomas Fields, M.D. He puts on his glasses and turns to his medical bag.

"John?" mumbles the feverish sofa lump, who other than his lips, daren't move at all.

"Bloody hell!" curses John Watson. He flushes his bit of breakfast, nibbled on the fly while he was cooking earlier; rinses his mouth; splashes his face, and stumbles out of the loo. He enters their living area, one hand grabs onto the wall; the other one lifts to shield his eyes from the morning light. He glances toward his landlady and the Holmes family physician – now his family physician – and winces.

"Thomas -" he begins.

"My boy, I do think you belong in bed. I'll be right in."

John nods, then looks toward Mrs. Hudson. She comes forward immediately and holds out the iced ginger ale.

"Now don't you worry a bit, John Watson. Everything's under control. I'm here as long as you boys need me."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudso -" John mumbles. He glances at the glass in her hands, his eyes widen, and he dashes for the loo again and slams the door behind him.

"John?" says the lump.

Martha Hudson and Thomas Fields both turn to regard Sherlock or what can be seen of him. Then look at each other.

"I've got nowhere to be," offers Thomas Fields, genially. He walks down the hall toward the bedroom, shaking down the thermometer as he goes.

"Here, Sherlock, try to get a bit of this down you." Mrs. Hudson bends over the world's only consulting detective with the glass of ginger ale. She helps him lift his head, so he can reach the straw. He takes one sip, then shakes his head and waves away the glass.

Down the hall comes a determined - and loud - exclamation. "Fuck this!" Followed immediately by the sound of a flushing toilet.

Mrs. Hudson looks down at Sherlock and shakes her head. "He really does need to work on that cursing problem, doesn't he?"

The detective stares at her. Realization dawns that he is not the only sick occupant of 221B. Flushed with fever, Sherlock falls back onto the sofa and throws one arm over his eyes to block out the light.

"Please kill me now," he whispers.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft taps on his blotter with his pen and stares at the portrait of the Queen. Saturday. Frankly, he was hoping for the day off, given the circumstances.

She who is not really Anthea comes in and sits down. She waits for him to look up.

"I've pulled in our agents in Syria. And closer to home, we've had to make an exchange in two of our agents assigned to the Carter project."

He raises an eyebrow. "Reason?"

She grimaces. "Good old fashioned flu. Williams and Roaman. Williams' fever spiked; he was treated at St. Bart's and then released."

He nods, distracted. She looks at him, then slides several sheets of paper and an envelope toward him, with a disheartened expression on her beautiful face.

He opens the envelope first, glances at the enclosed document, nods, then folds it and replaces it in the envelope. "Thank you, my dear, I'll deliver it to my brother forthwith." He places the envelope carefully in his breast pocket.

He gives each of the various medical reports a cursory glance, then looks up at her.

"It is suspected that the child has the same –"

She nods. "Yes, the same as her mother."

Mycroft looks at her. Then picks up the report that details the fatal illness of Gregory Lestrade's wife, Laura. This time, he begins to read each word carefully.

Anthea / Lizabeth waits for him to read the report a second time and then for her employer to pull a rabbit out of his hat. And wonders if this time, they will all wait in vain.

**OooOooO**

**One hour after John tosses his cookies**

"Well, that's a no go," Thomas Fields says quietly. He places his mobile phone down on the side table next to John's chair.

Mrs. Hudson comes out of the bedroom, a small tray in her hand. She glances at him as she walks into the kitchen.

Fields stands and comes into the kitchen. "I had an idea that Ms. Hansen might be available to help out here for a few days. But according to her sister and her fiancée', Ms. Hansen appears to be suffering with the flu."

"That's not good, is it?" Mrs. Hudson says. She places the two empty glasses in the sink and starts to run hot soapy water over them. Fields watches her for a moment.

"My dear, I do not have any scheduled appointments until Monday and I can most definitely remain to assist."

"Now don't you worry about these boys. I can take care of them just fine."

He smiles at her. "There is another bedroom upstairs, isn't there?"

She nods. "John's old room. But he hasn't used it since –" she stops talking as she realizes that this day is the anniversary of the day they became a couple.  _Poor John. He had such hopes for today._ She thinks of the beautifully wrapped violin downstairs in her flat and sighs.

Fields nods. "Understood. Well, they would both be comfortable if they separated; however, Sherlock would probably prefer –"

"Sherlock can go hang," comes John's determined, but weak voice from the doorway. They both turn to regard the doctor, whose hair sticks up on end. His face is flushed a bright rose. He is dressed in his Watson clan pyjamas and his slippers.

"Young man, get back into bed this instant."

John shakes his head. "In a minute, Mrs. Hudson. Thomas, you're right. We need to separate, before I kill him. I should be upstairs. But Mrs. Hudson doesn't need to be climbing these steps all day. She has a bad hip."

He lowers his head for a moment, winces, then lifts it again to look at them through bloodshot eyes.

"I'm feeling much better now that I've got some pain killers in me. And I'm moving to my old room. I don't want either of you going up and down the stairs. I'll be just fine. That is, if you Mrs. Hudson, can listen for –"

"John ?" The determined yell comes down the hallway.

"Oh dear God!" John says. "Be right back." He winces and then stumbles down the hall. At the last moment, he veers away from their bedroom door toward the bathroom. The door slams behind him.

"Son of a bitch!" Comes the determined yell from the closed bathroom door.

The landlady stands there with the family doctor.

"Mrs. Hudson?" comes the pitiful yell from their shared bedroom.

"I'd better see what Sherlock needs," Martha Hudson says. She hurries down the hall with the glass of ginger ale.

Thomas Fields watches her go and cocks his head the better to listen to a string of John's more determined cursing.

"Inventive," he murmurs. He sits down in Sherlock's chair to wait for Mrs. Hudson.

Perhaps the dear woman will make him another cup of that excellent tea.

**OooOooO**

Deborah stretches in the luxurious sheets, turns the pillow to the cool side and goes back to sleep. Ah, Saturdays.

She hasn't received a text or phone call from Mrs. Holmes all morning. Excellent.

She shuts her eyes, but they snap open a minute later when she realises the one major component of the upcoming wedding that no one seems to have considered, although, technically, it's Sherlock's call.

She sighs, gets out of bed and jots a note on her sheet. Then glances at her watch. She's awake now and might as well go find something to eat. And drive into London for the day. Yes, that would work.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – Early afternoon**

At Thomas Fields' urging, Mrs. Hudson finally goes to her flat to rest.

Fields glances in on Sherlock. Sound asleep, finally. And there has been no noise from John's room, upstairs. He pulls the bedroom door nearly shut, then quietly goes back to the living area.

Fields sits in John's chair and takes out his notebook and pen. He writes several lines of notes, then nods and picks up his mobile. He quickly thumbs through his list of private numbers and selects one.

"William Merit."

"William, Thomas Fields here."

"Thomas. What a pleasure. How can I be of assistance? Is this about John Watson?"

Thomas chuckles. "Yes, but no need for alarm. Just a request for a small consult, if you have the time."

"I'll make the time for John. Has something happened?"

Fields removes his glasses and rubs his forehead between his eyes. He replaces the glasses and stares at the skull on the mantelpiece.

"No. No, William, no cause for worry. Well, both men have apparently contracted an excellent case of influenza. But it appears to be your typical case of flu; nothing to be overly concerned about. And a few of their colleagues have contracted the same bug at the same time. I'm actually here at the men's flat now."

"Well, that's a bit above and beyond."

Fields smiles. "Not at all. If you knew Regina Holmes and her attitude toward anything that affects her sons' health - "

"I've met Mycroft Holmes. If Mrs. Holmes is anything like Mycroft, enough said. How can I be of assistance, Thomas?"

"Actually, William, as John Watson's cardiologist, I felt you should be kept in the loop concerning his health. I don't foresee any problems with John and this case of the flu. But that is basically why I called."

Silence.

"Thomas, technically, John is not under my care anymore, unless you or he feel there is a need. But anything I can do to help. Is there some aspect of this case of influenza that causes you alarm?"

Fields chooses his words carefully. "No. It's early days. I just diagnosed John and Sherlock this morning. Haven't even run blood work. I didn't' see the need, unless you recommend it. I've seen enough cases of flu to be pretty confident about what we're dealing with here. But I don't have as much experience with patients who have John's particular history. Just Sherlock's. Thought I'd ask if you have any concerns."

Merit stares out his window at the bright afternoon. Rounds complete, he was preparing to leave and salvage what he could of this Saturday. Now he frowns, thinking.

"Well, we both know the vaccinations don't cover the entire spectrum. There's always the bug or two that slips through, as in this case. I assume you are asking if I have any particular concerns about John's current state of health and his problem with what we all assumed to be an addictive substance?"

"That's what I'm asking, exactly. And if you administered John's flu jab to him in St. Anne's."

"Answer to the last is no. I assumed he took care of that himself. As for the other, not enough data, I'm afraid. I have no unusual concerns, beyond the obvious. My initial recommendation would be of caution. If you notice any unusual response on John's part, I'd get him in here, stat. But you know that."

Fields sighs and leans back in John's chair. He fights the urge to shut his eyes, even briefly. He really must get some sleep and soon. He's too old to keep these hours.

"William, this next question is highly speculative, but I have to ask. Frankly, it's been weighing on my mind. John is, to all intents and purposes, now under my care, as long as I'm spared. And again, I don't have the background in this type of –"

"You'll outlive us all, Thomas. And nothing like having a doctor as a patient. They're always trying to second-guess you. As for the other, you're asking me what my prognosis is for John's overall and long- term health?"

Pause.

"Exactly."

"And probable life expectancy?"

Dead silence.

"William, I don't see how either of us can even speculate on that one."

"No. No, we can't, of course, given the data at hand, or lack of it, I should say. But it's a perfectly valid question and concern."

Merit sighs and returns to his desk. He picks up a pen and taps it on the blotter in front of him.

"Thomas, this isn't really my field of expertise either. I'm a cardiologist. And it was in that capacity that I treated John. He had all the tests – twice. I pronounced his heart sound. I had no qualms, not really, once I saw the results. I can forward you copies of those, by the way. But we both know what possible effects a particularly virulent strain can have on the heart. Particularly in the case of a former drug user. Whether or not John Watson qualifies in that respect I'm not certain. Frankly, I'd be just as concerned about Sherlock in this instance."

"Since you brought it up, I assume you have never treated Sherlock Holmes in any capacity."

"None whatsoever. It was my understanding that there might have been some prior use there. But that understanding was completely derived from accounts in the media, I'm afraid, not from personal experience. And from a few rather pointed silences on both Sherlock and Mycroft's part when we were discussing John's reactions. I assumed you had all of his medical records at hand. I understood that you have treated him since he was an adolescent."

Fields nods at the skull. "Exactly correct. And Sherlock is rarely sick. Amazing, that, given his profession and the number of people with whom he comes into contact. Injuries? Good God, I could fill a book. But actual illnesses, no. Except for the occasional cold. He does tend to avoid regular meals and sleep, which I believe often leads to bouts of –"

Fields breaks off for a moment. No reason to mention Sherlock's dark moods, what Fields has diagnosed as occasional depressions.

He shakes his head and continues. "Sorry. A bit tired. No, this phone call is about John Watson, not Sherlock. Let's just say that any discussion of Sherlock's health records on my part with another health professional would not be welcomed by –"

Merit grins. "Mycroft."

"You surprise me by not saying Regina. But yes, by Mycroft."

"You forget. I've met Mycroft."

Both men laugh.

"Thomas, I'll have all of John's records sent over to you. That's all I can do at this point. But I'm more than happy to take a look at John, any time you feel it's warranted."

Fields sighs. Downstairs, he hears a door open. Mrs. Hudson must be on her way up. Better cut this one short now.

"William, thank you for the consult. I do appreciate it."

"Afraid I haven't been of much help. But if you're asking my personal opinion, completely as speculation, you understand –"

"Understood. Go ahead."

"Any time a person is exposed to a substance that causes the extreme responses I saw in John Watson over those few weeks he was here at St. Anne's – well, I can only say that it has to take a toll, if only in an overall weakening of the immune system. And we may be seeing that right here. Let's keep in mind that the man was shot, kept physically restrained and subjected to that damned drug, which caused internal bleeding, by the way. John died, Thomas. According to Ms. Hansen and all available witnesses, he was what I would consider to be clinically dead for nearly three minutes before cardiac function was restored.

"When he was admitted to St. Anne's, John was suffering from the obvious internal bleeding, as well as infection, starvation, dehydration, exhaustion. I will not comment on his mental and emotional responses. It's all in his records, and those of Maggie Oakton's. Pair that with a week of injections of that foul substance – including one full hypo administered here in St. Anne's, and coupled with what occurred after he left St. Anne's … Thomas, taking all of that into account, it has to take a toll on overall health and, possibly, just possibly, mind you, life expectancy."

William Merit sits back and frowns, as he stares at the bright day outside his window.

"I'm not even going to go into his years in the military. And his injuries sustained in battle. But I have copies of those records, as well as his physical therapy sessions and will include them in the packet I send you. At the time, Sherlock requested that I obtain all of John's medical records, going back to his childhood. I'm a bit amazed that we were able to do so. But it's all in there. Up to and including a very clear case of rather horrific ongoing physical abuse at the hands of his male parent. I don't feel I'm abusing John's trust by mentioning any of this. And Sherlock knows all of this, as well. John has been extremely forthcoming about his past problems. But if the subject does come up - "

"I didn't hear it from you," Thomas Fields says quietly. He hears someone coming up the steps. The flat door is, as usual, open.

"Exactly."

Fields shuts his eyes, rubs his forehead and thinks for a moment.

He hears the quiet footsteps behind him but dismisses them as being Mrs. Hudson's.

"Understood, William. That's why this case of flu, on top of all the rest of it, has me a bit concerned."

"I'll get those files to you. And for the record, it's Bill."

"I do appreciate it. Anything you can forward me of John's medical records would be of tremendous help. Good bye, Bill. And thank you."

"Not a problem, Thomas." Merit hangs up.

Field lowers his mobile to his lap. He opens his eyes.

And stares into the hard steel gaze of Mycroft Holmes.

**OooOooO**

John rolls over for the umpteenth time and tries to find the one spot that will allow him to rest.

No joy.

This is utterly ridiculous. He is a soldier, used to kipping in uncomfortable situations and has always prided himself that he can fall asleep anywhere, under any circumstances. He is sleeping on a new mattress, a quite comfortable one, too –  _spare no expense Anthea_  – and for the first time in ages, he doesn't have to fight for bed space with his octopus-limbed flatmate. The room is cool, dark, and most importantly quiet.

And he can't sleep.

He has the flu and Thomas Fields gave him something for pain and fever … and he can't fucking sleep.

" _Bloody hell,"_  John thinks.

Frustrated, he tosses off the bed clothes, then thinks better of it as he immediately feels cold. He huddles down again and once more tries to find that elusive sweet spot.

Nope. Not happening.

" _No way am I getting back in bed with that lump_ ," thinks John.

Thirty minutes of tossing and turning later, he's willing to concede that he might, just might, mind you, have developed a certain  _affinity_ for sleeping with said lump.

Utterly miserable and aching, John sits up on the side of the bed and glances around his former bedroom. The room has nearly been taken over by boxed case files, neatly stacked boxes of lab equipment – he can only assume that Sherlock means to turn the room into a lab at some point, makes sense – and this bed. And his bureau. And it's not a very big room to begin with.

He drops his aching head and shuts his eyes, wonders if either Thomas Fields or Mrs. Hudson are still downstairs. It's been a while since he heard Sherlock holler for Mrs. Hudson or the elderly physician.

" _This is not my life_ ," John thinks. He stands up, slowly, rearranges the bed clothes as best he can, then flops back into bed, pulls the covers over him and tries to sleep. For the umpteenth time.

Twenty minutes later, John stands up, throws on his robe, steps into his ratty slippers and grabs his pillow. He'll sleep downstairs. On their sofa. That is as close to the other sick person in this flat he is willing to go.

**OooOooO**

"I do hope I am not intruding?" Mycroft Holmes stands in front of John's chair and looks into Thomas Field's steady gaze.

"Thomas, by your presence, I can only assume that either my brother or John Watson is ill?"

Fields comes to his feet. "Mycroft. Excellent to see you."

He places his mobile phone on the table next to John's chair. And faces the elder Holmes brother, uncertain of what bits of his conversation with William Merit were overheard. And totally unconcerned about it to boot.

"Actually, it's both of them. Simple case of flu, or seems to be."

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. "Seems?"

Fields removes his glasses to fold them and place them in his shirt pocket. "Let's make that most probably is. Nothing to say it isn't."

"And yet, I appear to have interrupted a conversation between you and Dr. William Merit, John's physician in St. Anne's? You must have some concerns then, regarding this 'simple' case of flu and my brother-in-law's health."

Mycroft glances around, crosses to Sherlock's chair, seats himself and crosses one elegantly trousered leg over the other. He clasps his hands in his lap and regards his family physician evenly.

If he notes Mycroft's use of the personal appellation – the man did not, after all, say "future" brother-in-law, Fields ignores it. He nods, rubs his eyes, and looks around for his mug of tea. Ah, sitting right here. Most probably cool by now. He reseats himself and raises the mug. Yes. Stone cold. He frowns at the cup.

He leans back to regard Mycroft.

"Given John's recent illness, I felt it only prudent to ask William's advice concerning any possible effects influenza might have on his immediate health."

"Allow me, Thomas. Unless sweeping changes have taken place in the last few weeks, I believe I know my way around their small kitchen."

Mycroft comes to his feet, takes Thomas's mug from him and walks into the kitchen. He glances around, slightly surprised that the usual detritus of his brother's experiments in progress seems to have been cleared away.

He puts the kettle on, aware that Thomas Fields has followed him into the kitchen. He rinses Fields' mug and places it next to the kettle, then busies himself finding tea bags, sugar, milk. His lips purse at the box of PG Tips.

Anyone else might find the sight of Mycroft Holmes being domestic odd; but Thomas Fields, who has known this man since he was an adolescent, merely hopes he knows how to make a decent cup of tea. He pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and seats himself.

Both men wait for the kettle to boil.

Mycroft sets out an extra mug for himself, tosses the PG Tips box onto the counter, then looks through the cabinets again, finally pulls out a box of English Breakfast from the top shelf, John's private "stash," obvious. He nods, satisfied. It will have to do.

The kettle boils and neither man speaks, completely comfortable with each other's presence, while Mycroft pours boiling water over teabags in both mugs. He busies himself with milk, sets the newly-scrubbed sugar bowl in front of Fields and seats himself.

"Thanks, Mycroft." Fields pours milk into his tea, ignores the sugar bowl.

Mycroft stirs both milk and sugar into his tea, then sits back to regard his family physician. He glances into the living area again.

"I take it that Sherlock and John are -?"

"John upstairs and Sherlock in the room down the hall."

Mycroft allows himself a small smile. "I imagine my brother had something to say about that," he says.

"Most definitely. He insisted he could not rest unless John stayed with him and John was just as insistent that all he needed was another human body giving off waves of heat and taking up all the available oxygen and sleeping space and that neither one of them would be able to rest. I believe they wore each other out, arguing about it."

"And are they? Resting that is?" Mycroft blows across the surface of his tea, takes a cautious sip. Well, all things considered, it isn't too bad … No. Can't do it. He places his mug down and wonders if a supply of truly palatable tea would be welcome. He does not wish to interfere with John's domestic arrangements but feels that a supply of decent tea is definitely called for. And perhaps some mugs that are not mismatched.

He raises his cup again and mentally shrugs. This or nothing.

He takes another sip. And sets the mug back down, then shoves it to the side. Nothing it is, then.

Fields grins at him and drinks his own tea. He stares at the table top. Then glances up at the elder Holmes brother.

"Mycroft, I haven't informed Regina that Sherlock is ill. He's a grown man and I felt no need to do so but if you do mention this to her - "

Mycroft nods easily.

"Well, if you do, again, everything points to this being a disgustingly ordinary case of influenza. According to their landlady –"

"The redoubtable Mrs. Hudson," offers Mycroft.

"Of course. According to that kind lady, both men are all over the city because of Sherlock's occupation and bound to come into contact with various individuals in varying stages of health. The fact that Sherlock is seldom sick speaks to the overall strength of his immune system."

He places his mug down, half drank.

"But John is another matter. John's fever is lesser than Sherlock's. Your brother is by far, at the moment, the most uncomfortable of the two. However, given John's recent problems, I do not wish to take chances with his health or Sherlock's. Always best to be sure."

He picks up his mug again and looks across it at Mycroft.

Mycroft is thinking. His hand lies on the table top and he begins to drum slowly on the scarred top with those long fingers. He nods to himself.

"Two of my agents have apparently contracted a case of influenza and both men have been in very recent contact with both John and my brother. "

Fields nods. "Ms. Hansen, also, appears to be suffering from the same diagnosis, according to her fiancée."

"Indeed?" Mycroft thinks this through, comes to the only logical conclusion.

He smiles at the Holmes family physician. "Thomas, I think any concerns you have, while they speak to your excellence as a physician, are basically groundless. John, Ms. Hansen and my agents were at dinner very recently, just in the past few days, and undoubtedly contracted the bug and John brought it home to Sherlock."

Fields nods. "Thought as much. Still, I will keep an eye on both of them."

He places his empty mug down and clasps his hands. "I believe they need a nurse but Ms. Hansen, who is the logical case, is herself ill. I would recommend someone but Ms. Hansen would have been my first choice."

"And I told you, Thomas Fields, that I am more than capable of caring for Sherlock and John."

Both men look up as Mrs. Hudson crosses into the kitchen, a rather tall package in her hands. She nods at the elder Holmes brother.

"Mycroft."

Mycroft stands and inclines his head, then crosses to her. "Mrs. Hudson. Allow me." He gently takes the package from her.

"Mycroft. That probably needs to go in John's old room. It's a gift from John to Sherlock but neither man is in the condition at the moment to –"

"Of course. I'll take it upstairs as soon as John wakes. I certainly wouldn't want to disturb the man at the present."

He glances around, then crosses to place the package – the violin John purchased for his brother, obvious - in the far corner where the Stradivarius used to be kept.

He comes back to the kitchen and seats himself while Mrs. Hudson puts the kettle on.

She pushes the button, then turns to regard the doctor.

"Thomas, as I said, I am here for the boys " –Mycroft purses his lips at the term 'boys' – "and you leave whenever you need to. You must have other patients."

"Not at present, my dear, none that need to be seen on the weekend. I'm here as a favor to John, actually. And I need to check on both men, again. For now, let them sleep."

She smiles at him, as she places a fresh cup of tea in front of him. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft comes to his feet, "No, thank you, Mrs. Hudson. Actually, I must be going."

He crosses into the living area, stands in front of the mirror and removes an envelope from his jacket pocket. He holds it up so they can see it, then slips it behind the skull and tilts it toward the wall.

"Would either one of you be kind enough to direct my brother's attention to this envelope when he awakens? He's been waiting for this document."

"Of course," Mrs. Hudson says. She places her own mug of tea on the table.

Mycroft glances around the flat then pulls out his mobile. Before he can call his driver, they hear footsteps on the steps. And all of them glance at John as he makes his slow way into the living area.

"Thomas?" John keeps his hand on the wall as he comes into the living area. "How's Sherlock?"

"John, you should be resting," concerned, Mrs. Hudson crosses to the sick doctor.

John shakes his head. His face is pale and sweat beads against his hairline. His hand shakes as he raises it to brush across his face. "No. I need to check on Sherlock. And I cannot sleep up there. Hot as Hades, frankly. I'll kip here on the sofa. Mycroft."

"John." Mycroft pointedly does not cross the room to shake John Watson's hand. His eyes narrow, however, as he regards the obviously sick military man.

John walks over to sink into their sofa and leans back. Thomas crosses to John and places the back of a hand against the sick doctor's forehead. He frowns.

John opens his eyes and looks into his doctor's gaze. He tries to smile. "Besides, I cannot have you or Mrs. Hudson climbing those stairs constantly to check on me. Not good." He shuts his dark blue eyes again. "Not good at all," he murmurs.

While Mrs. Hudson pours a cup of iced ginger ale and Thomas takes out his thermometer, Mycroft glances at John, then turns to look down the hall toward his brother's bedroom.

He nods. "I believe I might have a solution, but we might need a bit of assistance."

As if on cue, they all hear footsteps on the stairs.

At the top of the steps, Billy stops in the open door, his hands full of white bags and containers of food.

"Angelo's. Delivery for Mr. Holmes."

On the sofa, John opens his eyes, glances at his watch and groans. He'd entirely forgotten about the anniversary dinner he'd requested from Angelo's.  _This is not my life_ , John thinks. He hopes Mrs. Hudson and Thomas Fields like Italian food.

Mycroft looks from John toward Angelo's nephew. And nods.

**OooOooO**

John experiences the first night with the flu as a nightmare of pain and confusion, mixed together with Sherlock's half-fevered mumblings and his own nearly incoherent replies.

It takes next to no time for Billy to dismantle, then set up the single bed in their shared room, along the far wall at right angles to Sherlock's bed. And as Mycroft surmised, it just fits, too. The new arrangement leaves precious little room to maneuver but both men can get out of bed and run for the loo when they need to, and more importantly, neither their dear landlady nor the elderly Holmes family doctor has to climb the stairs to check on John.

And John supposes, that was the whole point of the exercise.

Frankly, he thinks the entire thing is ludicrous. He is more than willing to kip on the sofa, provided everyone in the entire universe would just get the hell out of their flat and leave them alone. John's plan is simple: he sleeps on the sofa for the duration of this bloody illness; the lump remains in their bedroom. Sherlock bellows for assistance every hour on the hour - and John ignores him. And continues to sleep.

The plan would have worked, too, had Mycroft – _I'm so much smarter than all of you put_   _together_  – Holmes just kept his bloody mouth shut. But no. He could not. He is, after all, a Holmes.

Once the bed is set up and this seems to take no time in Johns' fevered perception, Mrs. Hudson overrides his protests and he is off the sofa and back in bed before he realises what is happening. Billy leaves, whistling, and with a rather handsome tip, courtesy of Mycroft Holmes. Thomas Fields just shakes his head and continues to write his notes.

John expects to toss and turn, as he did upstairs, but that never happens. He is quite comfortable, after all, or as comfortable as one can be with a high fever and myriad body aches and pains. The new arrangement seems to work just fine and he drifts back to sleep with little trouble.

When he has any time to think about it, he supposes that he is so used to sleeping with Sherlock, that he is unable to rest when out of the other man's presence. They are now within a few feet of each other, but not competing for space, and as soon as Mycroft well and truly leaves, John is able to drift off once more.

There's something about having the elder Holmes brother around that disrupts all possible thoughts of rest.

Sherlock wakens only once during the first night. The detective wastes no time in ascertaining that John is, indeed, in the same room as he, and actually just a few feet away. He does this by the simple expedient of repeatedly calling, "John, John !" until John replies, in his own succinct fashion.

"What the fuck IS it, Sherlock! I'm right over here. Now shut the fuck up and let a sick man sleep, all right?"

"All right, John," Sherlock mumbles quietly.

"Good. Now go back to sleep."

The other man nods and turns on his side and does, indeed, go back to sleep.

 _Well that's something at any rate,_  John thinks. He turns away from Sherlock, manages to pull the covers over him and then thinks about the odd fact that the aging Holmes physician is literally kipping on their sofa, instead of going back to his own home. That sofa cannot be that comfortable on old bones.

John feels terrible about this and in retrospect realises that something else must have pressured Thomas Fields into kipping on their sofa when obviously, the two of them have nothing more than a particular virulent strain of flu and just as obviously would be all right if left to their own devices during the evening. But he hasn't the energy to spare for it now.

A little while later, Sherlock's fever begins to climb again and all bets are off.

**OooOooO**

Three hours later.

Sherlock's fever rises. John doesn't need Thomas Fields to inform him of this, because the detective begins to mumble in his restless sleep.

Fields writes his notes by the light of the small bedside lamp, then turns to observe John as the doctor turns his head toward the bed where the detective lies. John's head spins and he opens and shuts his eyes twice before he can bring Fields into focus.

When he finally manages it, he's startled to note that the elderly gentleman now stands over him. Fields has his fingers on John's wrist, and all the Army doctor can think of is how cool the physicians' fingers feel on his hot skin.

He looks up into Field's eyes and manages to croak, "How's he doing?"

"About the same, John," Fields says. He finishes with John's pulse check, then lies the wrist gently down and pulls the cover over John's hand.

"Sherlock's fever goes up and down, perfectly normal. It's climbing again, but I'm keeping an eye on it. Yours is coming down, a bit. Finally."

Fields places one hand on John's brow and John shuts his eyes at the utter coolness of the physician's palm. The elderly doctor places a damp cool rag on John's forehead and he nearly groans in relief. He speaks to Fields without opening his eyes.

"Thomas, you need to go home and rest. I can take care of Sherlock. With Mrs. Hudson's help," John whispers. He opens his eyes to look upwards at the physician. Fields smiles gently down at the younger man.

"And who's going to care for you, John?" he says.

"Thomas, it's just flu. That's all. For god's sake." He pulls the cloth from his head and struggles to rise. John's voice breaks up as he coughs. He collapses back against his pillow with a sigh.

"Thomas, please. I feel bad enough about hauling you out to have a look at a grown man. It's just the flu. I was in the Army. I've been sicker. But it's so unusual for Sherlock to be ill. Thomas, just leave his meds and your notes and for the love of God, go home and rest. This is ridiculous. If he gets worse, I'll have him taken to hospital. Or Mycroft will."

"John, you need to go back to sleep. And stop worrying about me. I'm quite comfortable on the sofa. I've slept. And eaten. Mrs. Hudson is the one who needs the rest. She's been up here every couple of hours, bringing you cold drinks, clean laundry, changing sheets (John dimly remembers this), checking on both of you – and me as well. And she's brought up homemade broth for both of you, when you feel like making the attempt."

John gives up arguing and shuts his eyes. "She shouldn't even be up here. She risks picking up this bug."

Fields caps the thermometer and regards the exArmy man in the bed. "I agree with you there, John. But stubborn seems to be Martha Hudson's middle name. I cannot get her to stay away. For what it's worth, I'll keep an eye on her while I'm here."

Fields drops the thermometer in his chest pocket and glances over at Sherlock, then back down to John. "Now drink, please. You're dehydrated. Then lie down. You need to rest."

"Yes, all right," John mutters, unable to argue any longer. He dutifully drinks half of the small glass of cola Thomas offers him, thank God for straws. He winces as it makes its way down his throat. He lies back and turns his cheek to the cool side of his pillow and begins to drift again.

"Thanks, Thomas."

Fields nods, satisfied. He leaves, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.

Aware that Sherlock rests a few feet away, John manages to sleep.

His dreams are muddled, filled with explosions of light and sound, as mansions collapse around him; walls explode and crumble; chandeliers burst into showers of crystalline shards, shards that seem to spark and glow in brilliant beams of light. At one time, he dreams he is riding the Harley along support beams until he is over the burning laboratory in the basement of the mansion. He bends over and pounds and pounds with his fist to try to tear through the floor – his floor, Sherlock's ceiling – in order to get to the detective. But he can't break through. He cannot reach Sherlock. His pulse races and he shouts Sherlock's name.

He watches Rob Enders die all over again.

John coughs. And opens his eyes. The nightmare dissipates, thank god. He turns his head on the pillow and listens for the sound of Sherlock's breathing. He can just hear the murmurs of conversation from their living area. Thomas and Mrs. Hudson. He wonders what time it is but does not have the presence of mind to look at his watch. On second thought, he removed his watch and left it upstairs. No matter.

He shuts his eyes.

Someone comes in to check on him, give him pills, force fluids, he has no idea what kind. He hears the same someone go over to Sherlock, do the same things. They go out again.

He blesses Mycroft for having the idea of moving both beds into the one room. It's allowed them both to rest, at least for a bit. And he is near Sherlock, which seems vitally important at the moment.

He sleeps.

This time his dreams are filled with running. Running down alleys and along darkened streets; running with a gun in his hand; running behind Sherlock, always and ever Sherlock. And calling his name while the tall, dark-haired figure tears away from him, and recedes farther and farther into the distance. At one point, his curly-haired lover turns to him and stares grimly at him with crystalline grey eyes, untinged by green or blue. Grey like smoke. Grey like the numinous fog that pours down Baker Street and engulfs the detective right in front of John's horrified gaze.

"Sherlock!"

John's head jerks up and his heart pounds. His hands fist in the sheets and he glances widely around at his surroundings, before he remembers where he is. He wonders if he actually shouted aloud but no one comes into their room to check, so he assumes not. Good. He's embarrassed himself enough in the past few hours.

Damn, but he's hot. He yanks the covers off him and with an effort, swings his bare legs to the floor. Fuck! When did he change from the tartan pyjamas into boxer and tee? Surely, Mrs. Hudson didn't –

John steadies himself by placing both hands on the mattress on each side of him, his head down and eyes closed. Finally, he opens his eyes and manages to stand. He crosses the few feet to the other bed, and stands, swaying slightly, over the other man. He studies the familiar features in the dim light from the small lamp that Fields left on earlier.

Sherlock is feverish, obviously. His head turns on the pillow and he murmurs, most of it unintelligible mutterings. John reaches out a hand to smooth back a curl. Heat pours off the dry forehead. He looks around, finds a bowl of water on the bureau and rinses out a cloth in it. The water is still quite cool so someone has been in and recently. He sponges down the pale face and cheekbones, wipes the wet rag across Sherlock's too warm forehead, finally rinses it again and folds it, to press it down half over the pale expanse of forehead and half over the closed eyes.

The detective's head turns on the pillow, and his normally deep baritone, now a rough whisper, pours out unfamiliar words, half-formed sentences, equations, formulations, the atomic weight of every chemical substance ever known, frantically uttered syllables spoken in French, in Italian, in some language John doesn't recognize – Esperanto? They spill forth and tumble over themselves as John stands there. John looks around for a chair, finds none, finally sits down on the edge of the bed.

He thinks about waking him, then decides against it. Sleep is sleep and not to be interrupted unless there's a real need. John finally lowers his head to his right hand and shuts his eyes. His left hand encircles Sherlock's left wrist and he holds on. The sick man's pulse races under his fingertips.

A few minutes more of near garbled sounds, then Sherlock's voice becomes stronger, more coherent. He talks. John listens, half drowsing. Sherlock recites bits and pieces of their first cases, moments from their first days and weeks and months together. This time, in English. John hears his name, more than once, then with increasing frequency. John forces himself to stay awake, to pay attention. Lord help him, he needs to wake the man up. But he cannot. This is the first time he's had an unfettered glimpse into Sherlock's mind and heart - and soul - and God help him, if you put a gun to his head, he cannot stop listening.

But nothing, nothing prepares him for the raw honesty of Sherlock's ravings.

 _"You're a doctor. In fact, you're an Army doctor ... I like company … the skull just attracts attention… Proving a point …. Because you're an idiot … This is my friend, John Watson …_ (John winces when he remembers his callous correction _.) …I think he wants to be distracted … Oh, I've disappointed you … Putting my best man onto it … What if I shot you now? … The nightmares … How can he endure this, night after night? … John … More research on stress disorder needed … His hair, not blonde or brown … John … And my flatmate just stood there and let it happen … so who has the problem? … His eyes… like the sea … Don't make this man angry, he will shoot you … I want him … John Watson is mine. … I will kill anyone, Mycroft, who comes between us. He is mine. Period. End of statement. Get that through your head …."_

John's breath catches and his eyes sting. Fuck! This is voyeurism. He needs to stop this _._ Thomas, Mrs. Hudson, someone needs to come in and put a stop to this.

" _No, Mycroft. He does not get to do this. … Doesn't he know? … How can he think this? … I've never told him … John … Am I a good man? I can be amazing... Have I ever been good? … I cannot stop thinking of him … I want him here, in my bed… I did not think he'd want me … Who wants the freak? … Everyone leaves … Why would John stay? What do I have to offer? … If he leaves, I'll be using again, in one week, less … seven percent … Please, John … Mummy won't like it … if I lose control again… If I can't keep my thoughts Straight … Orderly … Precise … They'll send me away… Oh, God. Not again …No. Please .. I cannot escape Mycroft ... "_

John's eyes narrow in a flash of anger and his fingers grasp Sherlock's wrist harder. He did not just fucking hear that. He didn't. Mycroft? Regina? Tell me you didn't do this. Tell me _._

" _I'm better with John … Everything's brighter … more clear … He understands me … He's not put off by the madness, Mycroft … He's the first one, the only one who. .. John. ..The connections don't stop, John .. I can see the words, John … it happens at crime scenes … It's never quiet, John … just for you … "_

John raises a shaking hand to his eyes as hot tears cloud his vision. But he does nothing to halt Sherlock's fevered rambling. And he hates himself for it.

" _John's been taken … God, the blood … Have to find him before they kill him. … The cigarettes help. John won't like it. … It's a museum … I will fucking blow Frank's brains out the back of his head ... Good. He's dead. That leaves Moriarty … and Moran …. John's shot him … One down. … He's not breathing … Don't touch him or I'll break your neck … Bloody hell, John Watson, did I tell you that you could die ... and leave me on this stinking rock … Breathe, you idiot. … I love you, John Watson …I want you in my life … Forever… Marry me, John …. What Merit knows … Oakton's wrong … John, please … You have to wake up, John. I cannot do this without you."_

He clenches his right hand until he feels the bite of nails against flesh. He has so many fucking questions for Mycroft Holmes and the older Holmes brother _will_  answer them – or he'll break his bloody neck.

" _John's sleeping, Mrs. Hudson … If you ever do this to me again, John Watson… John, please…. John, stay….You're a whore, Jim, make no mistake about it …."_

John's head jerks up and his eyeswiden…but the sick man makes no further references to Moriarty, save one _…_

" _I'll kill him … please bring him back to life … so I can kill him all over again … John … He hurt you, John. He was going to keep on hurting you … until you were dead ….my fault, John … my fault …"_

Unable to bear it any longer, John stuffs a fist in his mouth to stifle his sobs. His aching body slips from the mattress on to the floor and he sits there huddled against the bed, his left hand raised and his fingers still wrapped around the thin, hot wrist. He shuts his eyes and leans his cheek against the bed. The world spins around him. Please, God, make it stop. Make  _him_  stop.

" _I'm not sending him away, Dennison ... Never … Kindly remember this is my Mother … They will kill her … Mother, this is John … John Watson, you are the tallest man I know … Till Death do us Part … I refuse to live without you, John … Don't be angry about the pills …"_

John's heart jerks in his chest. What pills!

" …  _What if he changes his mind? Comes to his senses? It's been bloody amazing, John Watson … What if he leaves? … I need to feel you under me, John…. It doesn't stop, John … IT never stops … My dear Doctor Watson … Self- hatred first … then self-harm … Check the clip … I cannot do this .. I'm not good enough… Never good enough … Why didn't we see?  … Stop the injections … We're killing him … He's going to get himself killed on that stupid bike ... You're not going anywhere, my dear doctor…. I'll kill the bastard … John probably wouldn't like it …John, my head. Make it stop … I cannot think … I need to think … To make the connections … The variables don't add up … My parameters are wrong … Mycroft will see … He'll know ... I'm not in control … No frame of reference, John …. No reference, John … John … John…"_

Finally, at last, at last, the hoarse voice tapers off. John remains huddled on the floor against the bed, his knees drawn up to his chin, his head bowed. His eyes sting with unshed tears and he swipes a shaking hand over them. His heart rate soars.  _Not good. Not good at all._

He struggles to his feet and stares down at Sherlock in the light from the lamp, at the beautiful face, flushed with fever, at the dark curls, which lie plastered against the skull. He sits down again on the side of the bed, still holding onto Sherlock's wrist, then forces his fingers to open and release the sick man's wrist. His fingers ache from grasping the other man so tightly.

John Watson lowers his head into his two hands and his shoulders shake, but he's too dehydrated, too feverish to shed actual tears. God. Just – Holy God! His head fills with acrimony directed toward everyone who has ever hurt this man. And his heart fills with so much love he is dizzy with it. He doesn't think his mind and heart and soul can begin to hold the love that washes over him for this utterly cracked, completely brilliant human being fate has placed in his hands.

He literally shakes with love for Sherlock Holmes.

_This. Is. Insane._

" _And I said Danger – and here you are."_

_He'd misinterpreted the data. He thought the danger existed outside this man - the very real risk of violence directed at them both from the outside world - when all along, Sherlock was warning him away. From Sherlock._

_Welcome to Sherlock Holmes' nonexistent heart, John Watson. Hope you enjoyed your stay._

John wills his hands to stop shaking.

Finally, John takes several deep breaths, then lifts his head and glances around their bedroom. He finds it strange that nothing has changed. It all looks the same. He winces as the pain in his own head increases. He needs to lie down. Sponge Sherlock's face again, try to get some fluids down him and then lie down himself before he falls down.

_One thing is certain. When they are over this, when he's feeling better, he and Mycroft and Regina Holmes are all going to have a little talk._

When he can stand without falling, that is.

Beside him, Sherlock whispers quietly, small words spoken in French that John doesn't catch. But then the quiet muttering becomes – something more. John's head whips back toward Sherlock and his eyes narrow. What the fuck ?

"…John…you didn't think, when the time comes…that you would be ... the one to go first?... There are many things I can do, John Watson, but that is not one of them …. I cannot…I refuse…"

John comes to his feet, his heart racing and puts out one hand to steady himself against the bureau. There is no fucking way he just heard what he heard. No. Fucking. Way.

The velvet voice, little more than a rough whisper, tapers off again, but the sick man's head continues to thrash back and forth over the pillows. John shuts his eyes. He's delirious himself. Has to be. He opens his eyes to stare down at the feverish man in the bed. John puts one hand up to his aching forehead. It comes away damp with sweat. He's just tired. Tired, and obviously still feverish. Yes, that's it. He's feverish.

Because there is no way on earth that he just heard bits of his latest nightmare come out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

No way on earth.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft calls Anthea. She answers immediately.

"My dear, I wonder if you would be kind enough to check on Doctors Oakton and Dennison. I would be very interested to know if either one of them is ill."

"Already done, sir. In fact, I was about to text you. Doctor Dennison was released a few days ago and is recovering at home from his surgery. Doctor Oakton is with him. According to her, neither one of them has the flu. Oakton sends their regards."

Mycroft is quiet for a minute while he thinks. Anthea waits patiently, knowing better than to interrupt his silence.

"I can only assume since you once again anticipated my question, that the same thought had occurred."

"A dirty bomb? Yes Sir. When I realized that not only your brother and Doctor Watson, but also Ms. Hansen and both Williams and Roaman were ill, the logical assumption was to check on Oakton and Dennison. But they appear to be fine. Oh, Doctor Oakton did mention that she had an appointment this week with Doctor Watson. But that she would reschedule now that she knows he is ill."

"Did she mention if this was a long-standing appointment or –

"She said that Doctor Watson called her a day or two ago and requested the appointment."

"Very well, my dear. Excellent, as always. Thank you."

"Of course, sir."

Anthea hangs up. Mycroft sits in the back of the car, staring in front of him, one long finger tapping on the case of his Blackberry.

His driver meets his eyes in the rear view mirror. "Sir?"

"Just a moment, please."

Mycroft thumbs the button and Anthea answers. "Yes sir?"

"Would you be kind enough to pull the copies of the tapes we have on Doctor Watson's sessions with both Doctor Oakton and Doctor Dennison? And forward them? Along with the information on the Oncology specialists my mother provided? As well as the latest intel from Korea and Syria? And I will not be back in today. Or possibly tomorrow."

"Of course, sir."

"And my dear? Go home and rest. I do not expect to see you for at least two days. Kindly give my regards to Agent Lynn."

Anthea smiles. "I'll do that, Sir." She hangs up for the second time.

"My home, please."

His driver nods. "Yes, sir."

Mycroft considers, then makes one more call.

"Thomas? Mycroft. Would you be so kind as to keep me apprised of my brother's situation? And of Doctor Watson's? Excellent. Thank you."

Mycroft hangs up. And stares out his window.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – Day Two**

**On second thought, we will not speak of Day Two.**

Other than to state that sometime during the second afternoon, Sherlock's fever drops and he is able to finally keep down liquids. He stares across the room at John, who is mumbling in his sleep. He nods, satisfied that someone with some sense has seen fit to place both beds in the one room. This way, he can keep an eye on John. Most excellent.

Much relieved, the detective falls back to sleep.

That night, when the detective's fever rises again, his ramblings take the place of reciting the particulars of the Top Ten Unsolved Mysteries in the field of Chemistry. Actually, in the interest of accuracy, he discusses Nine Top Unsolved Mysteries of a Chemical Nature and One Top Unsolved Mathematical Mystery – just to keep his hand in.

As John hasn't a clue in Hades of what Sherlock is talking about, he ignores the detective and both men are able to rest.

Thomas Fields and Mrs. Hudson sit and talk. And drink tea.

**OooOooO**

**Day Three**

**Baker Street – Or, as John refers to it: The threshold of Hell.**

Early Monday morning, Thomas Fields gives Sherlock something for the unremitting muscle ache. Ditto John.

He then leaves to check in at his practice, and go home to rest, after first leaving Mrs. Hudson with concise instructions, a carefully written out medication schedule, and a strict admonition to call him if either of the men takes a turn for the worst. He promises to be back for the evening shift. Mrs. Hudson assures him it is not necessary, but he insists anyway.

Martha Hudson smiles, nods and thanks him and sets herself to reading and memorizing her boys' medicine chart.

Meanwhile Sherlock's pain medication serves to keep him awake.

John's serves to put him to sleep.

**And therein lies the onus of Day Three.**

"John?"

Quiet Snores.

"John?"

Quiet Snores.

"Well, if you're going to be that way about it," the detective turns on his side and attempts to go back to sleep.

In the interest of literary accuracy, let's replay that scene. The detective  _flounces_ over on his side, taking all of the bedclothes with him, reaches back to  _yank_  the extra pillow up and over his head to block out his flatmate's snores, and then attempts to sleep. He then clears his throat. Loudly. This is in order that his despicable flatmate, who appears to be ignoring his sufferings, can hear said coughs and know that he – the world's only consulting detective and therefore, by default, valuable  _-_ is well and truly sick and someone better put a stop to it. This instant.

Someone going by the name of Doctor John H. Watson.

_Humph. Some doctor. Can't even cure a simple case of the common flu._

John ignores the coughing. And the flouncing. John keeps sleeping. And snoring.

Sherlock thinks he might just hate John. But he needs more data. However, before that can happen, his eyes jerk open and he fumbles out of the bedclothes, rushes to the door, tears past a startled Mrs. Hudson – and just makes it to the loo.

Five minutes later, mouth rinsed and face splashed, he is pretty darn certain he hates John Watson. He stares at the other man as he sleeps and snores. All the things Sherlock wants to be doing but cannot.

Sherlock sighs and turns away from John, to go back to bed, with some idea of texting Lestrade. Or someone. Anyone. Even Mycroft. He winces when he realises his mobile is in the other room. Going in the other room will involve walking. After first finding and putting on his robe so as not to give Mrs. Hudson fits when he appears in naught but silk pants for the second time in one morning.

He does not want to have to go to the other room to find his mobile. Nor does he want to shout for Mrs. Hudson to bring it. Not when there is a perfectly acceptable phone within easy reach. He spies John's mobile on the top of the bureau, and nods.

Excellent.

John is asleep right now and certainly won't mind if he borrows his phone.

Sherlock reaches out for John's phone, but his long fingers Can't. Quite. Reach. He lunges…and watches in horror as John's mobile scoots across the polished wood surface and falls neatly behind the bureau. He winces when he hears it hit the floor.

Well…so much for that. He turns over and tries to sleep.

Clearly, Mrs. Hudson needs to back off on the furniture polish, just a bit. He would bring it up with her, if she were their housekeeper. Too bad she isn't.

A few feet away, his much hated flatmate snores. And sleeps.

A bit later. Same universe; same London flat.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" comes the quiet groan.

"Can you reach my mobile?"

Silence.

Unbelieving silence.

"No."

"You're much closer than I am," comes the muffled voice from beneath the pillow.

"Let me rephrase. Hell, no."

John turns on his side and attempts to get comfortable. And who's idea was it anyway to move the extra bed in here, anyway?

He groans. Lifts his head, turns the pillow to the cool side, and flops his head back down again.

"John?"

Deep sigh.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I really need my mobile."

"Use mine."

Silence.

"It's on the bureau. You can reach it. Use mine. In fact, keep it. I'll buy another one. Or Mycroft will."

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

"Er, John."

"Sherlock? Just use my mobile. It's right there."

"John, I prefer my mobile. It's in the other room."

"Then ask Mrs. Hudson to bring it."

"Mrs. Hudson has gone downstairs to rest, John. And I believe to do our laundry."

"I'm not going in the other room, Sherlock. Just use mine. And let me sleep."

"John, you've made it clear that you prefer I do not look at the photos you have taken and stored on-"

"Sherlock, that was my old mobile. This is my new mobile. I haven't taken any photos, well, only a few of you, and feel free to look through them. The other ones were all of you, anyway."

"John –"

"For fucks sakes, Sherlock. Do I have to come over there and retrieve that bloody stupid phone for you? Jeesus…"

"John – I….might have dropped your phone. While trying to retrieve it, of course."

"Dropped my phone?"

"Yes, John."

"For the love of … Okay, Sherlock. I'm coming over there to get the bloody phone and put it in your bloody hand and I don't want to bloody hear from you for at least an hour, all right?"

"All right, John. I was just going to text anyway."

"Fine. Whatever."

John throws back the covers, waits for the world to right itself just a bit, then pads over to the other bed. He looks on the floor, then backs up and glances under the bed. Frowns.

"Sherlock, where exactly did you drop my phone?"

"Behind the bureau, John."

"Behind the bureau."

"Yes, John."

"Sherlock, I'm going to have to move this freaking bureau! How in gods name did you manage to drop it behind –No. Nope. Never mind."

John reaches and pulls the covers off the other man. "Okay. Get up."

"John?"

"You heard me. Out of bed, Sherlock. Between the two of us, we should be able to move this freaking bureau. Else we can take the drawers out, one by one, and then move the thing."

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Can't we just use one of those grabby extension things to reach your phone?"

"We don't have one of those grabby extension things, Sherlock. Remember? I wanted to order it and you said it was a waste of household funds and besides, only idiots order things off shopping channels. Your exact words."

"I might have been wrong about that, John."

"Dear God. We have got to retrieve my phone, now, so I can record that for posterity."

"Is this you being snarky, John?"

"No, Sherlock. This is me being down right sarcastic. Now get out of the bloody bed!"

"John? Wouldn't it be easier on both of us if you would just go into the other room, retrieve my mobile and bring it back?"

Silence.

"Bloody Hell !"

John pads out of the room. Finds the hated phone. Brings it back. Throws it at Sherlock. Misses his head by a foot.

"Thank you, John."

"Don't mention it. Just let me sleep."

"All right, John."

A little while later.

"John?"

"John?"

"John!"

"What is it now, Sherlock?"

"Tea."

"Tea. No thank you, Sherlock. I'm trying to sleep."

"No, John. I meant for me. Tea would be nice. I think I could drink some tea."

"Wonderful news. I'll alert the media. Please ask Mrs. Hudson to bring you a cup."

"Mrs. Hudson is not up here, John."

"Not surprised. The woman has probably vacated the premises. If she has any sense, that is."

"Not funny, John."

"Not aiming for humor, Sherlock."

"I would think that you, of all people, Doctor Watson, would be aware of the necessity of keeping the system hydrated during a particularly virulent bout of flu."

"My God. You've been Googling on your phone again."

" _Wikipedia,_  John. And might I point out that your phone is still under the bureau?"

"Sherlock Holmes, let me be clear. I do not care if my fucking phone is at the bottom of the bloody ocean, during a typhoon, in the deepest reaches of the Marianas Trench. Ringing. Don't care at all. Please, for the love of God. Shut. The. Hell. Up. And let me sleep."

"All right, John."

"Fine."

Silence. Tapping of fingers on tiny keyboard.

"You do know, John, that the dangers of dehydration during the flu can lead to –"

"Oh for the love of…"

**OooOooO**

**The Threshold of Hell –**

**Evening of Day Three**

"John?"

"Hmmm."

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock? Are you in pain?"

"I actually feel a bit better, John."

"Good. Now go to sleep."

"John."

"I need to sleep, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry, John."

"It's all right. Just – go to sleep. 'kay?"

"No. I meant I am sorry that we missed our anniversary."

John turns over slowly and looks across the room at the man in the other bed. Sherlock lies on his left side, his curly head cradled on one arm, while he watches John. The small lamp is on and both men can see each other clearly.

John hears the sound of thunder, remote. He can see an occasional flash of lightning outside their bedroom window. Somewhere in the flat, Mrs. Hudson and Thomas Fields are talking.

"I'm sorry, too Sherlock."

"It is obvious that you went to a great deal of trouble to prepare breakfast. And my illness spoiled that for you, John."

John sighs. He looks at the other man and smiles gently.

"It's all right, Sherlock. You couldn't help it, neither of us could."

"Can we plan on celebrating in another day or two, John?"

"Absolutely, we can. Of course, we can."

"All right, John."

"Good."

Both men continue to look at each other.

The thunder gets closer. John hears Mrs. Hudson as she rushes around, closing windows.

"Oh my word, when did this storm pop up?"

And then Thomas Fields' deeper voice. "Let me help you, my dear."

John smiles.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Do you feel well enough to – my temperature has stabilized, I believe. As yours obviously has. Do you think you might possibly want to – ?"

"Not with our landlady and the Holmes family physician in the flat, Sherlock. You stay there and I'll stay over here. Just for this last night, all right?"

Sigh.

"All right, John. I was referring to sharing the one bed, John. Nothing else."

"I know, Sherlock. Both of us are still to sick for anything 'else.' I think it's for the best, Sherlock."

"All right, John."

"Good."

The doctor turns over and pulls the blanket around him. For once, he isn't shaking with fever. He only hopes the respite lasts the night. Outside their window, lightning flashes. The blue arcs light up their room.

"John?"

John turns back to regard the other man.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"Do you realize that this is the longest time we have ever abstained? We have spent the last three nights in the same room, in different beds and not once have we –"

"I realise, Sherlock."

"I miss you, John."

"Me too."

"Good night, John."

"Good night, Sherlock."

Thunder rattles the window. The blue-white arc of a lightning flash throws their room into temporary relief.

John lies with his head cradled on one arm and stares out at the storm, what he can see of it.

He hears the rustle of bed clothes as the other man tries to get comfortable.

"John? "

"Yes?"

"When I was – feverish - two nights ago –"

"Yes?"

"Did I – I've been reading and apparently, it is quite common for people to ramble on, to talk aloud, to say things that don't quite make sense to others. Did such a thing occur while I was sleeping?"

"Yes, Sherlock. Well, a bit."

"Yes?"

"Well, Yes, you rambled on a bit, but No, I didn't quite understand it."

"All right."

"Well, I was out of it myself, but I do recall you reciting the periodic table of elements. And some equations. At least I think that's what they were."

"Good. That's good, John."

"Go to sleep, Sherlock."

"All right, John."

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street –**

**Day Four**

Both men sleep late.

When they waken, Thomas Fields checks their temperatures and nods, highly satisfied. He makes several notes while he enjoys Mrs. Hudson's most excellent breakfast.

Neither Sherlock nor John care to eat, other than toast. But at least they are able to keep it down.

After speaking with both men, mainly to satisfy himself that they are better, Thomas Fields takes his leave. He promises to 'pop back in' later that evening, just to check on them.

Mrs. Hudson sees him downstairs, then comes back up to admonish both men to rest, stay in bed, and rest some more. She will see them at noon to give them their meds and bring them soup.

John thanks her for her constant care, and blushes as he does so. He realises that his landlady has obviously seen a great deal more of John Watson than he ever intended her to see. She just smiles gently and pats his cheek.

"You're welcome, John. Now don't go tearing around this flat. There's nothing needs doing. Just rest. You too, Sherlock Holmes."

From his bed, Sherlock nods at her fondly. He doesn't stop texting.

She places two cups of hot tea in their room, one by Sherlock and the other on a tray next to John, and leaves.

John sits propped up against his pillows and listens to her quiet footsteps recede.

He turns his head toward Sherlock. And grins.

"Shower?"

Sherlock hits SEND and immediately starts another text. "Already done."

John frowns. "When?"

"Earlier this morning, while you were sleeping, obviously. Really, John, do try to keep up."

"Good. Because I'm too knackered to fight over who gets the first shower."

Sherlock lowers his mobile and regards the doctor sternly.

"Doctor Watson, while I have to state that I do not feel up to the full resumption of sexual relations – yet – I would deem it advisable for you to hurry. As I intend to kiss you senseless in just a few minutes."

"Back in five, Sherlock. And for the record, that's all I had in mind, too."

"Hmmm." Sherlock nods - and goes back to texting.

John comes back from the shower, hair damp, in fresh boxer and tees, feeling a bit more human. He re-enters their bedroom, glances at the detective, and stops just inside the door.

Sherlock still leans back against the headboard, texting away. But there is a slight smile on his face. And a neatly wrapped box in the middle of John's bed.

He looks over at Sherlock, who hits SEND, drops his mobile on the bed and regards his doctor.

"Happy Anniversary, John."

John grins. "Be right back, Sherlock. I need to call Mrs. Hudson."

"No need, John. I believe Mrs. Hudson brought your offering up a few days back. It appears to be in the corner by our bookcase. I noted it earlier this morning, when I left our room to shower."

John stares at him, then rushes from the room, retrieves the violin and brings it back. He pauses just outside the door, takes a deep breath –  _the git has probably deduced what this is already_  – and walks in with the box.

Suddenly, he feels incredibly awkward. And not for the first time, he wonders what possessed him to even consider gifting such a talented musician with such a nondescript instrument.

He places the box at the end of Sherlock's bed with hesitation.

_This is ridiculous. It's a violin. He'll either be able to use it or not. Get a grip, Watson._

But he cannot remember being so invested in a gift in his entire life. He stares down at his bare feet for a moment and mumbles something unintelligible.

Suddenly, there is six feet of consulting detective at his side. Two strong hands grip his upper arms and gently swing him around.

Sherlock plants a kiss in John's hairline, then two more, one on each side of his forehead.

"Idiot. Now open your gift. I got there first so I insist on you opening your gift immediately."

John looks up into the amazing eyes. And grins. Suddenly he feels like a child at Christmas. Not that Christmases at his household were all that much –  _Not_   _the time, Watson._

He sits on the edge of his bed, while Sherlock stands in front of him. And tears the paper off the box. He folds open the flaps. And pulls out a rather bulky object wrapped in tissue paper. He pulls off the paper.

And stares.

He holds an obviously worn, lovingly used Gladstone bag in his hands, a deep warm brown.

 _Exactly like his Grandfather's._   _And Thomas Fields' bag._

His eyes fill. Before he can examine it further or stumble out a thanks, Sherlock hands him an envelope.

"Read this please."

John glances up at the detective, then down at the envelope. His name is written in rather heavy ink –  _Doctor John Hamish Watson._  He opens it and withdraws a letter, a single sheet, handwritten in the same spidery hand, on heavy cream-colored stationary. The letter smells like lavender.

**Dear John –**

**I hope I do not offend by using your given name, but at my age, I find these types of social niceties to be baseless. And I do so love the name "John." It was my dear husband's name.**

**I have been contacted by the most extraordinary individual, a Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who informs me that my late husband served as company surgeon in the same company as your grandfather, Doctor Hamish Gregg Watson.**

**I understand from Mr. Holmes that you were once in possession of your grandfather's medical bag but that it was inadvertently destroyed.**

**I loved my husband very much, John, and followed him willingly around this world. But as the wife of a military man, I have had to uproot our household on several occasions and something is always lost in the packing. Therefore, I have few mementos left of my dear John, other than photographs and the like. One of my treasures is his bag, which I have kept under lock and key for many years and which one day, I hoped to pass on to a grandchild.**

**Alas, the two grandchildren I have been gifted with have little interest in their grandfather's history, either as an Army surgeon or a military man – and no interest whatsoever in pursuing a medical career.**

**I am an old woman, John, and some things are best passed on immediately to those who would find meaning in them.**

**Therefore, I have elected to send you my husband's Gladstone bag. I understand from Mr. Holmes that you will treasure my late husband's bag and find good use for it.**

**Please accept it with my blessings.**

**Yours in Christ,**

**_Mrs._   _Abigail Grace Byron_**

**_( Not "the" Sherlock Holmes, surely? The detective who is in all the papers? Oh, I do so love a good detective story ! And that would make you, by default, "the" Doctor John Watson. Most exciting ! )_ **

John is speechless.

Tears spill over and fall down his cheeks, as he reads the letter a second time, then carefully folds it and places it back in its envelope. He sets it aside, swipes a hand over his eyes, then opens the bag.

Sherlock stands and watches as John's fingers rub over the worn leather binding, as his soldier examines the interior. He frowns slightly, not certain how to read the new data.

_Perhaps John is still feeling ill? Perhaps he misjudged the appropriateness of the gift._

He clears his throat, "John, I –"

Before he can finish his statement, he is nearly knocked to the floor by five feet and seven inches of very determined Army doctor.

John is kissing him.

_John is kissing him._

Everywhere. Just – everywhere.

" _John is crying. I have made John cry. Just hold him. These are what I believe are referred to as 'happy tears.'"_

A warm feeling washes over Sherlock as he puts his arms around John. The doctor bends his bright head into Sherlock's neck and continues to hug him.

" _Perhaps the excessive emotional display is due to John's recent illness ?"_

"Stop it. Stop it right now,"John demands in a harsh whisper.

Sherlock pulls back slightly and lifts one hand to brush through John's white-blonde strands. His other hand is around John's waist.

"Stop what?" he whispers back.

"You know what. You're deducing this. Recording my response. Well, I'll tell you my response. Come here."

Sherlock bends his head slightly and John lifts his head to meet him. He lifts his hands and places them on each side of the dark curls, and brings their foreheads together.

"You are the most amazing, incredible human being, as well as utter pile of total mush I have ever met, Sherlock Holmes. And if you ever, and I mean ever, refer to yourself again as a high functioning _anything_  – other than bloody genius - I will –"

"Understood," Sherlock whispers, his voice sheer velvet. He lets John kiss him again, then he bends slightly and kisses John's forehead and both of his eyelids, as the doctor has his eyes closed.

John opens his dark blue eyes and looks into the oddly pale ones.

"I don't know what to say, Sherlock."

The detective clears his throat. "Under the circumstances, John, I believe the appropriate response is 'Thank you.'

John laughs. And kisses the taller man again. "Then here is the appropriate response – Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you, you bloody wonderful man."

The next few moments are very satisfying indeed. Finally, John pulls back and swipes one hand over his eyes.

"Your turn next," he says.

Sherlock records John's body language as his doctor turns, rather hesitantly, to retrieve the wrapped box that lies at the foot of the bed.

John blushes as he hands the box to Sherlock, his eyes on his hands and not on the detective's face.

"Happy Anniversary, Sherlock." John's voice has suddenly gone quiet indeed and Sherlock's mind grapples with the influx of data.

" _Ah, of course. He does not feel his gift will be met with enthusiastic response."_

 _Well, we'll just see about that_.

A moment later, the wrapping is torn and box opened.

John watches as the long fingers slip open the catch on the case and remove the violin that lies nestled there in its wine-red, velvet enclosure. By the total lack of hesitation, John assumes that Sherlock knew all along what was the in elongated box in the corner of their living area.

Sherlock's fingers trace the violin's lines, his fingertips move back and forth over the hand-rubbed patina. He turns the instrument over in his hands – twice – and finally lifts it to his shoulder. His left hand moves over the fingerboard, not really plucking, just feeling, recording. He nods, lowers it again and bends to retrieve the bow from the case.

John watches him and his cheeks flush, as if his fever has returned.

"I know – that is, I've learned enough from you, that I know you'll require a much better bow than—"

"Hush, John. Not now."

Sherlock finds the rosin in the case, nods and returns it to its little niche.

Finally, he holds the violin in front of his eyes, stares down the length of it, to what purpose John has no idea, and finally nods, thoroughly satisfied.

Sherlock carefully and reverently returns the instrument to its case and places the bow alongside it. He locks the catch and glances around their room, rather crowded now with the extra bed. Finally, he crosses to the bureau, sweeps the few items there into the top drawer, then carefully lays the violin case on top of the bureau where he can see it from the bed.

He turns to their bed, folds the duvet and extra blanket and sheet back and fluffs the pillows.

All this time, John stands there, perplexed, his heart hammering in his chest.

Sherlock walks out of their room and John hears the sound of the door to their flat being firmly shut. The detective comes back in and gently closes their door, as well.

Then he returns to their bed, removes his robe by the simple expedient of untying it and lets it fall to the floor. He wears only the dark blue silk pants. He gets into bed, props himself up on the pillows and finally looks at John.

"Come here," he says in the deep velvet drawl that confounds John's brain and sets his blood cells scrambling. His voice brooks no argument.

John walks to the bed, glances at the violin case on top of the bureau, then looks at the other man.

"Sherlock –"

"That was not a request, John. And I do not believe I stammer."

John Watson swallows. But he gets into bed.

The taller man pulls his doctor to him and rests the bright head against his pale chest. He pulls the bed covers over both of them and leans back against the pillows. His left hand begins to sift through the blonde strands, while his right …

"I thought we were just kissing," John says quietly. His heart rate has increased and he doubts this bodes well for his total recovery.

"We are. Until both of us are fully recovered. But I missed you, John. Dreadfully."

The detective's lips nuzzle along the blonde hair, tasting the strands. His right hand caresses John's right arm, then moves downward to his chest and right rib area, and then farther downward until it rests over John's right hip, over the boxer shorts. It begins to inscribe small circles over John's hip.

John's eyes close momentarily as he realizes that while his mind tells him he needs to recover and it will be a few more days, his body tries to tell him something else entirely.

Sherlock's left hand tugs gently on John's hair and he twists in the detective's embrace until both men look directly into each other's eyes.

Sherlock begins to kiss John. He plants warm kisses along his hairline and both sides of his brow and then the corners of both eyes and downward, on each side of John's thin lips and then finally directly on John's mouth, with John's total participation.

After a moment, John pulls back slightly and looks into the crystalline eyes, gone a beautiful shade of grayish-green.

"So…I take it you liked my gift?"

His heart hammers in his chest. And his capable doctor hands, warm, roam over Sherlock's chest and arms.

"I believe I am trying to convey to you, John, that not only is your gift more than acceptable, but since you have apparently lost brain cells in the past few days, due no doubt, to that infernal virus, and at the risk of repeating myself, your gift is Most Damnedly Acceptable – and rather incredible to boot."

John laughs and ducks his head into the marble chest. His heart rate slows down, just a tad, but the other man works determinedly to bring it back up again.

They spend the next several minutes just letting their lips roam over and in each other's mouths, kissing, nipping, tasting.

John stops kissing Sherlock momentarily and turns his cheek to rest it against the firmly muscled chest – Sherlock's fever has totally receded and he can only hope, permanently – as the skin under his cheek is cool. He listens to the sound of the other man's heartbeat for a moment.

John's voice, when it comes, is gruff. "Well, all right, then. Happy Anniversary."

Sherlock's right hand leaves John's hip and turns his doctor's chin upwards so he can stare down into the dark blue eyes.

"Happy Anniversary, John." He smiles into the dark blue eyes.

"Got your breath back?"

John grins. "Ready when you are."

"Good."

Sherlock's lips claim John's.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – Later that evening**

Dr. Fields takes the proffered cup of tea from Mrs. Hudson, bends to place it on the coffee table, then turns back to her. He takes her hot cup of tea out of her hands and places it next to his.

He turns back to her. And holds out one hand.

"Martha."

"Thomas." She smiles - and puts her hand in his.

And then the Holmes family physician gently pulls the Holmes landlady into his embrace.

And kisses her.

With her full and hearty participation, we might add.

He pulls back slightly, smiles at Martha Hudson, then nods. "Just a minute, my dear. If you will allow me, I believe I can improve on that."

He removes his glasses, folds them and places them carefully in his shirt pocket, then puts his hand around her waist.

"Once more?" he murmurs.

Mrs. Hudson smiles, steps into his embrace.

And proceeds to kiss Thomas Fields into next Tuesday.

From the open doorway of their bedroom, John leans against the door jam, smiles gently, then turns and quietly closes the door behind him.

He climbs back into their bed, rearranges the covers over both of them and grins to himself.

"John?"

"Go back to sleep, Sherlock."

"Thought you were going for tea," the detective murmurs.

"Not at the moment," John says quietly. "Now go back to sleep."

"All right, John."

In the cool darkness of their bedroom, John turns on his back, next to Sherlock, and gets comfortable.

He shuts his eyes.

"Good on you, Mrs. H.," he murmurs, as he begins to drift.

Blessed silence. Then.

"If he hurts her, I'll cut his heart out," murmurs Sherlock.

John's eyes snap open.

"How in bloody hell –"

"Oh good grief, John. It's been obvious for days."

"It's not obvious to me," John says in quiet amazement.

Sherlock turns over, pulling most of the covers with him. John has no recourse other than to turn with him and spoon the detective, just to stay warm, you understand. He places one warm hand against the back of the ratty grey tee. And begins to rub small circles over the worn material.

"Hmmm … nice. Don't stop."

"Sherlock, again, how did you –"

"You know my methods, Watson. Apply them."

The detective reaches back for John's arm and tugs until the doctor scoots closer. He pulls John's hand close to his chest, encloses it with his and simply goes back to sleep.

"Sherlock?"

Silence.

"Sherlock?"

Quiet snores.

John sighs. And shuts his eyes.

Explanations, like his tea, can presumably wait.

**OooOooO**

All bed sequences written under the influence of:

_Set Fire to the Rain,_ Artist: Adele _Album: Adele 21_

 _A Thousand Years,_ Artist: Christina Perri

 _Baker Street,_ Artist: Gerry Rafferty

'sky'


	7. Chapter 7

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 7**

**WHEN DID YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME? – Part Two**

" …. I know how scared you get of the unknown. To you...I must be kind of a security blanket. Do you see now, how that doesn't work for me? I don't want to be there, simply because the idea of me being gone is too...scary. I want to be someone's everything. I want fire and passion, and love that's returned, equally. I want to be someone's heart... Even if it means breaking my own."  
― S.C. Stephens,  _Thoughtless_

 

**OooOooO**

**London – Regents Park**

John sits on a bench, their bench, in the park and watches the damn ducks.

He has been so fucking angry for so many hours this day, that coming down from that, has left him drained. He's a doctor. He's aware of the tiredness that comes from doing too much too soon after an illness, but this tiredness, this vague floating feeling has nothing to do with that.

Bloody hell. He was nearly killed by Moriarty's filthy drug; kidnapped and fucking shot, for Gods' sakes. By comparison, a nasty virus doesn't even register on his pissed off meter.

He thinks back over Sherlock's delirious mutterings again. And each time he comes to the part where the detective alludes to "being sent away," John sees red.

And the anger just below the surface, threatens to do more than lie there, simmering.

He doesn't know who deserves his condemnation the most. Mycroft Holmes, Big Brother in every sense of the word. Smug; condescending; Know-it-all. Keeper of the nations' secrets and self-appointed Guardian over his younger insane brother – at least, until John came along. Or Regina Holmes, whose ideal of motherly love and affection manifested in years of near-suffocating possession. A trait that she passed on to her youngest son, by the way.

Or Sherlock Holmes. For being  _– Sherlock._

At least his paramour has an excuse…if utter lunacy can be viewed as such.

The mother duck changes direction and her tiny charges follow her, mere dots of yellow fluff against the dark grey of the water _._

_Shouldn't the water be blue? Guess not._

People walk by him, tourists with cameras and A to Z London guides, couples, families, mainly mothers, most of them too young to be "proper" Mums, wheeling little ones along, walking with and chatting with equally too-young Mum girlfriends, texting, talking, texting. Planning the evening meal. Fix dinner; get the kids fed and in bed. Wash up. Do laundry. Lay out clothes for the morning. Book bags and homework and carve out time for crap telly and frenzied conversations that seem to revolve around BFFs and Twitter, Tumblr and Facebook and "who do you love best" of the latest round of movie and TV heroes / villains.

John sees it all, hears and notes it, dismisses it as he dismisses the ducks, the water, the crowds of people, a great many of them international visitors in London for the Olympics.

He wishes he could dismiss Mycroft and Regina's actions as easily.

John shuts his eyes, rubs the heels of his palms against his closed eyelids, then lifts his head and opens his eyes to glance around. Working with Sherlock, running after Sherlock, seeing the battlefield with Sherlock …coupled with his own natural instincts of self-preservation, dictate that although he would very much like to sit there, head bowed, eyes closed, Not Thinking, caution dictates that he open his eyes, notice his surroundings, stay alert.

He leans back against the bench, ankle cocked over knee, arms stretched along the back of the bench and questions if there is any real reason for the staying alert bit. Moriarty is dead. Ditto Moran. Sherlock's sworn enemies - and his - eliminated.

The kidnappers are – well, to be honest, he hasn't a clue. He thinks he knows. But he's never discussed it with Mycroft. A bit busy at the time. He wonders if Sherlock has.

That leaves this Adair person. But no news from that quarter is good news. And Mycroft might be one of the world's biggest arses but John has no doubt that if a threat should surface, Sherlock and by default he, will know about it almost as quickly as Mycroft.

Probably.

He fingers a tiny plasticine bag in his pocket and frowns at the feel of the two, seemingly innocuous, pills in the bag.

There's a tightness in his chest and nothing and no one in the Park today is to blame for putting it there – just Sherlock.

John watches the concentric ripples the birds make as they swim along, and he wonders at the fact that even though he needs this tiny break from Sherlock, had to get away from the flat, go for a walk, get some air - at the same time, he's aware he's being pulled toward the detective the way the earth tugs at the moon.

Or has he got that wrong and it's the other way round? No matter. If Sherlock so much as crooks his finger, John comes running. The detective can gather him up with a glance, a half-cocked eyebrow. Half the time they don't even need to speak to each other, hear the words, for John to know what Sherlock wants of him.

And Sherlock always wants something of him.

No. He knows all of this as he sits in the park and watches the ducks and the people.

" _What bothers me the most," John thinks, "is the fact that none of this truly bothers me. Shouldn't it?"_

What disturbs John to the point of anger is the fact that apparently, those who had Sherlock Holmes in their keeping, abused that trust and privilege. He frowns.

" _I don't have the facts, just the delirious ramblings of a man whose mind can't be mapped. Add a nasty virus and resultant fever to that mixture and where does that leave us? Am I right to be angry? Did this happen? And will Mycroft even talk with me about it?"_

John intends to find out. He glances at his watch. Still time.

His text chime sounds. His wild child, checking in. As he reads the tiny words, John grins. Sherlock's exuberance spills forth from the small glowing rectangle.

_A BODY John!_

_Chalk one up for Dimmock_

_SH_

_Did I mention footless?_

_SH_

_Headless would have been interesting_

_But Footless !_

_SH_

**Footless or Footloose?**

**Are we intrigued – or just dancing with joy?**

**JW**

_John, I've noted your_

_Rather vague cultural references before._

_Still vague, John._

_SH_

**Corpse. Footless. Got it. Crime scene?**

**And try not to be too happy about it.**

**Particularly in front of the techs**

**JW**

_Body dump. Alleyway. Waiting on forensics._

_D. insists I give Anderson_

_A chance to cock it up_

_As usual_

_SH_

**Male? Female?**

**Clothed? Nude?**

**JW**

_Male, late teens._

_Jeans, designer._

_Tee - garish_

_SH_

**Photo?**

**JW**

_Multimedia message_

_.jpg_

_SH_

John glances at the tiny photo, then frowns. A teen memory surfaces.

**The tee shirt graphic –**

**Is that The Flash?**

**JW**

_Be more specific_

_SH_

_Please_

_SH_

" **The Flash" – comic book character**

**Red costume. Can run nearly as**

**fast as speed of light**

**JW**

_SH –_

_SH –_

_Run near to speed of light_

_Ridiculous_

_SH_

_These little insights into your_

_Teen years are fascinating, John._

_SH_

**Thought it was interesting.**

**Given today's Olympic events.**

**JW**

_Specifics John._

_SH_

**Runner. It just reminded me.**

**Olympics races today.**

**JW**

_Runner. Speed of light - "c"_

_Olympics_

_Races._

_John -_

_I think You've just solved this case!_

_SH_

**Was there ever any doubt?**

**JW**

_JOHN – Have I told you lately,_

_That as a Conductor of "c" –_

_SH_

**Whatever…and Yes, You have**

**JW**

_Sorry, John._

_Neglected to ask._

_How's studying going?_

_SH_

**Bit boring, actually**

**Left flat for air – and milk**

**Wrap up case**

**I'm hungry**

**JW**

_Where are you?_

_SH_

**Park. Watching the bloody ducks.**

**JW**

_Refrain from feeding._

_No one likes fat water fowl_

_Other than Mycroft –_

_Who adores foie gras_

_SH_

**I'll keep that in mind**

**Dinner? Angelo's?**

**We missed our Anniver'y dinner?**

**JW**

_Excellent_

_Ask for our usual table_

_Meet you there_

_SH_

**Oh, no. Never again.**

**You come collect me when you're ready**

**JW**

_Problem?_

_SH_

**Not really. Unless U call waiting on YOU for**

**4 bloody hours a problem.**

**JW**

_Really, John. No need tb snarky_

_You were fed._

_SH_

**The food was fine, Sherlock**

**The food is always fine**

**JW**

_?_

_SH_

**So were the propositions**

**It was all VERY FINE, Sherlock**

**JW**

_I WILL COME COLLECT YOU WHEN DONE, JOHN._

_SH_

**See that you do.**

**JW**

_Were said propositions of a sexual nature?_

_SH_

**What do you think?**

**JW**

_Qty? Gender?_

_SH_

**One female**

**Two males**

**JW**

_At Angelo's?_

_Am I being "played" here John?_

_SH_

**Roma Hill – Female – Redhead – Late 20's.**

**Parisian artist. Spectacular 'attributes.'**

**Nice. Very nice.**

**JW**

_I get the point John_

_SH_

**Male – blonde – early 30's – Dumb as a post.**

**Can't remember name. Not my type.**

**JW**

_You can stop now, John_

_SH_

**Male – Dark – Tall. Late 30's. Soldierly type**

**Rather interesting. Miller.**

**JW**

_Occupation – or his name?_

_SH_

**Name. Former US Marine**

**JW**

_You'll pay for that one, John_

_SH_

**Counting on it**

**JW**

**:p**

**JW**

_HOME IN TWO HOURS, JOHN_

_SH_

**See that you are**

**JW**

John fingers the tiny plasticine bag in his pocket. And the two pills it contains.

**I have something to discuss with you**

**JW**

_Any clues?_

_SH_

**You know my methods, Holmes**

**Apply them**

**JW**

_You interest me, Dr. Watson._

_SH_

**Feeling's entirely mutual**

**Mr. Holmes**

**JW**

_2 hours - How are ducks ?_

_SH_

**Yellow.**

**Waterlogged.**

**JW**

_Anderson's nearly done._

_Is this appropriate time to tell you_

_Mummy's plans?_

_SH_

**Probably not.**

**Tell me anyway.**

**JW**

_We are expected at the House_

_Fri evening._

_Entire weekend._

_SH_

**Tuxedo Fittings tomorrow am**

**Dr. Cordoa apt tomorrow pm**

**Manor tomorrow night ?**

**Bugger**

**JW**

_That was MY reaction, John_

_SH_

**DOUBLE FUCK**

**JW**

_That's the spirit, John!_

_SH_

**OooOooO**

Anthea answers her mobile, frowning.  _Why doesn't Deborah just text?_

"Anthea? I'm in London, picking up wedding invitations. Picked up a few other things, as well."

Anthea's eyes widen. She taps one elegant fingernail on her phone, thinking fast.

"Sounds like you've had quite a morning already."

"It's had its moments. But the city's a bit crowded now. I'm over it, frankly."

Anthea smiles grimly. "I'm jealous. I've been trying to get time off to shop for ages. So – what did you buy? Clothes, shoes, a new guy?"

"Hah. You know me, I'd never stop at just the one new man. I'd need two at least, one for everyday and one for best. Hold on a sec, would you?"

Deborah fishes out a small pocket mirror from her purse, then turns her head slightly to the right as she fusses with her hair. Some things work no matter how dated they are.

She sighs and shakes her head slightly, then drops her mirror in her purse. She puts the call on speaker, then flips on her turn signal and glances back before pulling out in traffic. She glances in her side mirror. The taxi follows her into traffic.

"You know, it's more crowded here than it was on Saturday."

Anthea frowns _. Deborah was being followed on Saturday and she never reported it?_

"Saturday? Wish you'd called. I would have met you."

Deborah drives carefully, glancing in her rearview mirror as she does.  _Honestly, no attempt at subterfuge. Where's the challenge?_

"Would have done, but I was rather busy and traffic was a bitch. Too many people. Probably just the Olympics crowd."

_So Deborah wasn't certain she was being tailed on Saturday. That explains why she didn't report the incident. Still …_

Anthea thinks quickly. "Crowded, huh?"

"Definitely. Nowhere near as now, though."

"Bad?"

"Not at all. I can handle it. Just thought I'd say Hi."

"Where are you right now?"

"Oh, just pulling away from the printers. I was going to take care of some personal errands, then drive back, although home's a bit boring. I'd like to get away."

"Understood." Anthea thinks quickly. Who does she have in London on call?  _Deborah doesn't want to take a tail back to the Holmes estate._

"Deborah, I'd love to meet you for a coffee. Are you driving?"

"Yup." Deborah glances in her rear view mirror and smiles grimly at the cab that has been following her for over an hour.  _It certainly hasn't been an exercise in subtlety._

"Anthea, if you'd like to meet up, I may bring company."

"Great! The more the merrier. I'm really jealous about the shoes, though. Got any pics?"

"Check your text in a sec. I snapped a couple while I was trying on. Don't know how good they are but I'll send them over. Purely to make you jealous, you understand."

"Bitch. And me stuck here working away. Okay, I'll take an early lunch and meet you at the usual."

"Fine. Looking forward to it."

Deborah shuts down the mobile link and glances at the passenger seat where two large boxes sit. Two boxes which hold extremely expensive and ornate wedding invitations. She sighs. "Knew things were getting a bit too quiet," she murmurs to herself. At the next light, she taps out a quick msg, attaches the photos, and hits SEND.

Deborah pulls away from the main traffic and watches as her 'shadow' follows her.

She shakes her head in disgust.

"Honestly, I'm just a bit disappointed here, guys. I expected more from the criminal classes. You're going to have to try harder to impress me. "

**OooOooO**

The little girl in the huge hospital bed giggles.

"Daddy, you're wearing a hat!"

"Well done. You'll make a bang-up detective one day."

"Are we going fishing? 'Cause you never wear a hat 'less you're fishing."

"No fishing today, Sweetheart. But I promise, as soon as you're better, you and Cassie and me will spend a lot of time fishing."

"Take your hat off, Daddy."

"Oh, you want me to take my hat off, do you?"

"Yes, because you look funny with it."

"You think your old Dad looks funny now. Have a look."

Greg Lestrade grins at his little girl, then reaches up and removes the rather crumpled olive green hat with a flourish.

She squeals in delight.

"Daddy! What happened to your hair?"

"My hair? What do you mean? It was all here last night."

"Silly. Let me feel."

Lestrade bends over and Chrissie Lestrade runs her little hand excitedly over the bald head.

"Feels just like my head, Daddy."

"Oh it does, does it. Let's have a feel then."

Chrissie bends her head toward her Daddy and reaches up to pull off the silk scarf.

"Ta da!"

"You're right. Feels the same. Funny that."

"Daddy, you and I match now."

"Pretty much, I'd say. But it looks better on you, Sweetheart. And by the way, where did you learn to say Ta Da?"

"It's that show, Daddy, with all the funny medians on it."

"Comedians. Hmm, I can see we have to do something about your television viewing habits."

"Here, Dad. Let me feel it again."

The nurse comes in and Chrissie looks up excitedly. "Can you take a picture of me and my Daddy? 'Cause our heads match now."

She smiles at father and daughter and takes the small camera from the D.I.

"I think it's a brilliant idea to have a picture. And I can see you and your Dad match. Now both of you smile. There. That ought to do it."

Chrissie grins and takes the camera from her hand. She hands it to her Dad, who places it on the pullout table next to her hospital bed. She lies back against her pillows and hugs her soft doll to her.

"Daddy? Can you let me feel it again? 'Cause it's kinda bumpy here and there."

"All right, then," comes the gruff voice. "But no giggling." He moves his chair closer and bends his head to rub it against his daughter's small cheek.

Chrissies rubs her small hand over the D.I.'s newly-shorn head. And giggles.

"Thought I said no giggling. Here you go then, one attack by the tickle monster, just for that."

"Daddy!"

The nurse smiles, checks the bags of fluid, and goes out to leave them alone for a bit.

**OooOooO**

John shifts his weight on the bench. The day has grown slightly grey. Rain is in the forecast for late that night.

He glances at his watch. Twenty-five minutes before he has to stand, leave the park – and meet Mycroft's driver.

Plenty of time to sit and think about what he is going to say to Mycroft – and later, to Sherlock.

John watches the ducks.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street**

**Two Hours Earlier –**

Sherlock takes his leather gloves from a pocket of the short jacket and begins to pull them on, smoothing the soft leather over every long finger. He hesitates, his mobile in his hand, and looks toward John, who sits at their desk, several medical texts open in front of him.

"John, I –"

John glances up at him and smiles. Sherlock fairly vibrates with tension and eagerness. Nice to see after their recent illness rendered him nearly comatose.

"Go on with you. Go find out what has Dimmock in a strop. I've got work to do here."

Sherlock frowns slightly, glances at the open books, the pens and notepad and at John's hands as they turn a page, then smooth over the printed word.

"John, it shouldn't take too long if you would care to –"

John sighs. Drops the pen on top of the open book to mark his page.

"Sherlock, I told you, I need to get to this. No time like the present. Besides, Lestrade made it quite clear that I can't accompany you when he calls you out like this. Or in this case, Dimmock."

The detective snorts. "No one calls us out, John. We choose to go or not. And you will most damnedly be accompanying me, John. If they don't like it, they can go find themselves another –"

"Another consulting detective and his faithful blogger?" John shakes his head and grins. "Only one in the world, remember?"

"I was going to say 'Partner,' John, not blogger."

The two men regard each other with affection.

"Shouldn't take you too long. If you just stop talking and get on with it, that is."

"I much prefer you come with me, John."

John turns his head to regard the other man. "I feel the same way. Doesn't seem right."

He makes a shove off movement with his right hand.

"Get on with you then."

"All right, John."

Sherlock watches his Army doctor again as he turns his attention to a page in one of the books, then abruptly turns to leave the flat.

"Be careful, you bloody idiot," John murmurs.

He hears the front door open and shut. A moment and he stands back a bit from one of the living area windows, and watches as the detective hails a cab.

Ten minutes after he's seen Sherlock's cab leave, John stands in the middle of their living area, hands on hips. He gives it a whole ten minutes because if the detective is going to come back for something, if he changes his mind, it's going to be immediately.

John leaves his medical book open on the table, turned to three pages down, just in case. Sherlock will notice if the pages haven't been turned and John's not certain he'll remember to turn any pages if he finds what he's looking for. On second thought, he places his notebook, pens and highlighter, both uncapped, next to the book, as if he's just dropped them to make tea. Then he goes ahead and makes tea. Just to cover all the bases.

Ten minutes later, tea made and consumed, he stands there and turns in a slow circle, just looking.

An entire flat – John glances around, well aware that he's trying to find the elusive needle in the proverbial haystack. But he intends to try.

He tries to think like Sherlock – for about 45 seconds, and then shakes his head.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

Think like – well – like everyone else.  _Just get on with it, Johnny boy_.

Pills. As in multiple. As in  _two_?

The most obvious place he eliminates immediately. He turns the skull over twice, then sets it ("Her," he needs to remember. "It's a she.") back on their mantle. He fits it to the dust pattern and mentally thanks the fact that Mrs. Hudson has been so busy in the last few days, caring for both men, that she has not made her usual rounds with her feather duster. "Sorry sweetheart," he mumbles.

He glances along the length of the mantle but there's nothing there. Wait. The Persian slipper. He bends down, reaches up into their fireplace and feels around.

Got it.

It takes just a glance, not even a hidden cigarette. Nothing.

John upends the slipper and shakes it out over his palm, just to be certain. He examines the stitching, feels along the smooth edges. Nope.

He bends back down, this time glancing up into the flue to make certain he puts it back exactly where Sherlock had it, on its hook. He straightens and then glances around again.

Bookshelf? Pills would be crushed if actually in the book but yes, could be hidden behind. On second thought, no. Too much of chance that he'd pull a book out and find them. Or that they would be crushed by sliding a book back into its slot.

John shakes his head.

" _I'm going about this entirely wrong,"_  he thinks. " _The most obvious places: kitchen, bedroom; living area; then bath, in that order_." He glances up the steps to his old bedroom and frowns.

Yes, he could have hidden them there.

Sherlock could have hidden the pills just about anywhere. When you think of two small pills – John has to assume that he's looking for two – then the flat seems enormous by comparison.

The only place John is fairly certain he will not find the pills that his mad flatmate mumbled about in a fevered delirium is on said flatmate's person.

He decides to give it his best shot. John walks into the kitchen, glances around, then mentally divides the kitchen into grids. He starts searching. The kitchen is the one area, probably the only one, that he can make a slight mess and Sherlock might not notice any changes. "Might not" being the operative phrase.

Grid one: John opens the cabinets and glances at the row of tea mugs, drinking glasses, plates. He looks up at the top shelf, then hauls a chair over. Best to eliminate the high ground immediately. He pulls down a box of tea that Sherlock had tossed up there a few days back, tosses it to the counter. Then reaches and feels all the way around with the palm of his hand.

Nothing.

Chair back in place, John begins with grid two and works his way from there. He is aware of how unlikely it is that he can find two pills, if it is just two, hidden in the flat. Particularly taking into account the individual doing the hiding.

On the other hand, if the pills are what John thinks they are, Sherlock would want them to be accessible, easily found, not by him, but by Sherlock.

_After all, he would be out of the picture, or soon to be, wouldn't he?_

" _It can't be any place that I would normally be into, else I'd find them. What is it I do in here? Cook, clean or try to, sweep up broken glass, bin experiments, do the washing up. Eat."_

He shuts his eyes to think.

" _Sit and drink morning tea with Sherlock. Make toast."_

He picks up the toaster, their seventh since John moved in, and looks at the bottom. He pulls out the small tray designed to catch crumbs, slides it back. He even picks up and examines Sherlock's glassware, the retorts and flasks. He bends down to look into the Erlenmeyer flask, decides he's losing his mind, and just as he makes the decision to leave the kitchen, he looks over at the microscope. The damn thing is heavy and John doubts his ability to tilt it, then reset it exactly in the same spot. Sherlock would notice like a shot. He stands next to it, then shakes his head. It will be his place of last resort. There is no way he can upend the thing to examine the bottom and replace it perfectly.

He stands with his back to the kitchen and looks into their living area. His eyes roam over the furniture, all of it new, replaced, with the exception of their desk.

John crosses to the desk and not bothering to rummage through the drawer, he does after all, open that drawer every day to grab a pen or pencil, he pulls the drawer out, then bends to glance up into the well it occupied, under the desk. He lifts the drawer and glances under it, as well. Nothing.

He replaces the drawer, then with some dim memory of watching an old black and white film where the hero hid the documents in an envelope, taped to the back of the desk, he glances sideways along the wall. He can just see the back of the desk.

No.

All right then. He's read Sherlock's web site, eliminate the impossible and whatever remains…John stands with his back to the kitchen and looks around their living area again. He lets his mind relax and goes over all the places that Sherlock – and only Sherlock – would use in the course of a day. And keeps coming back to the damn microscope.

John's lips purse. He's forgetting. He actually moved the bloody thing a few days back to make room for their anniversary breakfast. And Sherlock never mentioned it or reacted at all.

 _Of course, he was busy throwing up on my shoes at the time,_  John thinks. Still …

No. He's missing something. Where could Sherlock hide something he doesn't want John to find, even accidentally, during the course of a typical day. Or night? And would he keep to the one hiding place or switch it out?

Switch out of course. Not because it's necessary. Because he's Sherlock.

Sherlock. Coat. Scarf. Magnifying glass. Billfold – obvious. With him all the time and a very obvious place to keep pills. But – no. John might need cab fare. Sherlock has tossed him his billfold on several occasions. Coat. Jacket.

It's a very warm day. Nevertheless the detective left wearing the short jacket that John likes so much. The long coat hangs on the hook. In the lining? Good idea, but the damn thing goes to the cleaners a lot.

No. He's missing something. Something purely Sherlock. Clothing? Shirts, suits, shoes. Suit jackets.

Oh for pity's sakes!

When it comes to him, he frowns. No. He wouldn't. It can't be that easy.

John crosses back to the corner by the bookcase. To the Strad's corner. He stares at the violin case that holds the violin John gifted the detective with two days earlier. Without moving the case, he slips it's hinges, then swings it open. He kneels down and opens the tiny compartment that holds the rosin.

The rosin is still there. Just as it should be.

And so is a tiny plasticine bag.

John holds up the small bag, his heart beating a rhythm in his chest. He stands, crosses to the desk and switches on the lamp. Without slipping out the two pills, he holds the bag under the light and stares. Two perfectly innocuous pills, off white, nearly but not quite beige, oval-shaped. He turns the bag over. No identifying numbers. No name.

He stares. There are many pills that resemble these. But he's so certain of what they are, that all he can do is straighten up, bag in hand and stare at the wall behind the desk.

His mad love wasn't just mumbling in his sleep. Because here is the proof. Two pills, innocuous, nondescript.

Deadly.

John's trained medical mind supplies the pill name even as a thrill of horror rushes through his system. His eyes narrow.

All right then. Fine. Now he knows what he's up against.

John commits the appearance of the pills to memory, then crosses back and replaces them in the small compartment of the violin case. He pushes the lid shut, then locks the case itself. He stands back. And goes to wash his hands.

A minute later, John reopens the violin case, removes the bag and drops it into his jacket pocket. And washes his hands again.

Once the other man comes back, they are going to have this out.

In the meantime, John nods to himself. One down; one to go. He has put this off long enough.

He crosses to the desk, slams the medical texts shut, recaps the pen and neatly stacks it all to one side. He glances around their living area, then grabs his jacket, checks his pockets for billfold and his flat keys as he leaves.

He thumbs the third most used number on his mobile and has a quick conversation with the most powerful man in the hemisphere.

Satisfied, he leaves the flat and heads for the Park. It's a pretty day for a walk.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock stands behind Anderson, hands in the pockets of the shirt jacket, one eyebrow raised.

Anderson finishes with the corpse, straightens up, snapping off the latex gloves. He stares directly into Sherlock's rather sardonic gaze, and smirks.

"We need to move the body,  _if_ you're entirely finished here."

The two men look at each other.

"Oh, I finished ten minutes back, even with your determined bumbling. In fact, I believe I've solved it."

Anderson looks at him. Two can raise an eyebrow. He does so.

"You 'believe' you've solved it? Don't tell me the great Sherlock Holmes is experiencing a moment of doubt, a crumb of indecision –"

"Why did you come to John's aid?"

Sherlock's thumb hovers over a button on his mobile, his entire being concentrated on the medical arse in front of him.

Dr. David Anderson frowns. "What? When?"

Sherlock just stands and waits for the light to dawn. He says nothing. He drops his mobile into a pocket, plunges both hands into both pockets and stands there, tall, imposing, and stares. The slight breeze ripples through the dark curls and sets them dancing.

Anderson looks down at his feet. "Oh. That." He finishes with the gloves, glances around, finally balls them up in one hand and bends to drop them in his kit.

He takes a moment to compose himself, then straightens. When he turns, he's in complete control again, but looks suddenly tired.

Sherlock frowns, and studies the other man's facial expression.

"I do not believe I have to explain my actions to you, Holmes." He makes as if to brush by Sherlock. It's a narrow alley. The ambulance sits at the end, waiting. A tech leans up against the open ambulance door and D.I. Dimmock stands there, discussing something with him. From time to time, Dimmock glances down the alleyway toward Sherlock and Anderson.

Anderson looks toward the alley entrance, then back at Sherlock.

"Care to move out of my way?"

Sherlock momentarily considers just standing there until the other man answers his question. But then he takes a step back, his hands still in his pockets.

"It was uncharacteristic behavior, Anderson. Even from you. Particularly from you."

"And I imagine that anything _uncharacteristic_  from anyone, particularly me, registers on the Richter scale of your perception as a 7, right?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He looks over the man's entire body language – and cocks his head to the side, suddenly very interested in Anderson indeed.

Dave Anderson pauses, kit in hand, his back to Sherlock. Several dozen yards away, Dimmock continues his conversation with the med tech.

Sherlock watches him. Watches as his back straightens and one hand clenches, as Anderson's fingers dig into his palm.

When his voice comes, it's surprisingly soft.

"I don't know why I'm even bothering, Holmes. But - these Olympics then…the Men's swim meets begin today. They start out with heats, the best go on to the semi-finals, and so forth."

Sherlock stares at the back of Anderson's dark head. He just waits.

"My brother – Andrew – Andy to all of us, Mum and Dad and me. He had a chance at that. Men's 400 freestyle and the 200 meter backstroke. All of them, in fact. He was – good. Better than good. He was bloody excellent."

Anderson takes a breath and turns toward Sherlock. The men look into each other's eyes.

"Andy was – is – well, he came out to all of us three years back. And it was fine. No one cared. I mean, we all knew. I always did. He's my brother and I didn't give a damn what he –"

He breaks off for a second, then looks away from the determined grey eyes, and stares at a spot beyond Sherlock's shoulder.

"Seven months ago, Andy and his – partner – were walking home from a movie and dinner. Some roamers attacked them. It was … pretty bad. Andy ended up in hospital with two breaks in his left tibia, nearly shattered the damn thing. They beat Scott, his partner, so severely that he was in a coma for a near week."

Anderson continues to talk to the wall behind Sherlock, his face expressionless. Finally, he glances directly at the detective.

"There were witnesses. They tried to help. One of them got his hand broke for his trouble. The other called for help. Later, they said the worst of the sobs - the biggest bastard, kept kicking my brother over and over, and all the while he was calling him names, one in particular …" Dave Anderson breaks off.

He squares his shoulders and stares into Sherlock Holmes' clear grey eyes.

"You're a right cold bastard, Holmes. Always thought so. But what you and Doctor Watson have, the way I look at it, it's none of my business. Not mine or anyone's. But it's obvious that it's – that he and you – that it's damn special. Whatever it is… _works_. And when I heard that jackass call Watson a poof … guess I saw red."

He tightens his grip on his kit. "Andy would have been in the swim heats this week. And he would have made it to the finals. He was that good. Those bastards took that away from him. Away from all of us, really. We have all been there for him, for years. Can't begin to tell you how many mornings one or the other of us got up hours early, just to get him to an available pool to practice. And those monsters took that away from all of us. But most importantly of all – they hurt my brother."

He breaks off and stops talking, shocked that he even told Holmes all of this.

Sherlock says nothing. He looks at Anderson and Anderson looks back at him.

" _Honestly, sometimes I can hear John Watson in my head,"_  thinks the detective, not for the first time.

Sherlock takes a step forward – and extends his hand toward Anderson.

"Doctor Anderson, I want to thank you for your actions on John's behalf."

Startled, Dave Anderson looks from the steady gray gaze to the outstretched hand. He takes a breath. Then extends his hand toward Sherlock Holmes.

The shake is quick, perfunctory.

Anderson clears his throat and turns away. "This changes nothing, Holmes. You're a smug tosser and a bloody amateur menace. Can't imagine why Lestrade or Dimmock put up with you."

Sherlock smiles grimly. "And you, Dr. Anderson, are an unmitigated arse who doesn't know his way around a crime scene and have single-handedly cocked up more forensic investigations than I can count."

"If I had my way, I'd have you arrested – and banned for life from the Yard. Watson must be mad, totally mad," Anderson tosses over his shoulder as he leaves.

Sherlock stands and watches him go. He says nothing – although it damn near kills him. But he rather smugly thinks that John would be proud of him for letting Anderson - this one and only time - have the last word.

"Won't ever happen again," he mutters.

**OooOooO**

John looks at his watch, stands, stretches, and walks away from the bench, his hands in his pockets.

A few minutes later, he sits in the back of the black car and drums his fingers on the armrest. He has never met Mycroft's driver – another of his brother-in-law's agents – and once the man says hello, neither of them speak to the other.

John wonders how Jake Lynn is and resolves to visit him.

It takes them forty-five minutes to reach Mycroft's town home through the Olympics traffic.

**OooOooO**

John is met at the door by an elderly gentleman John knows only as William, who greets him with a polite, "Doctor Watson. This way sir," as he ushers him into the living area. And quietly leaves.

John has been here before, once, with Sherlock. He is not put off by the quiet opulence of his surroundings. Mycroft has taste, he has to give him that. But it's not ostentatious. The rugs are ancient Orientals, the furniture all clean, contemporary lines and more to the point, comfortable. The woods are natural, dark and polished. The art is sparing but high quality. All originals. A reprint would never find its way to Mycroft Holmes' walls.

In the library, Mycroft offers John a drink or tea, both of which John declines. Mycroft seats himself and quietly studies John's body language. He notes the soldier keeps both hands out and open and to his sides, the fingers barely clenched.

It is obvious that John is not carrying his weapon. His alarm systems would have gone off and John would never have been allowed access to the townhouse.

The two men size each other up.

"John, it's obvious that you are disturbed by something that involves my brother. Since he is at the moment at a crime scene with D.I. Dimmock – and you are obviously here, may I assume there has been a bit of a domestic?"

Mycroft decides to diffuse the strained atmosphere. He leans back and crosses one leg over the other. John remains standing.

"Mycroft, I'm here for one reason and one reason only," John begins.

"Ah," Mycroft nods. He looks around, takes up his own glass and settles back again in his favorite chair.

"Most definitely something to do with my brother then. Please sit John. I believe that whatever you have to ask, and whatever my response is, we can remain civil with each other?"

John stares at the taller man, his hands slightly clenched at his sides. He comes to a decision, takes a steadying breath, and sits down opposite Mycroft.

 _Make that extremely comfortable furniture,_ he thinks _._ And now that he is here, sitting opposite his brother-in-law, John finds himself not tongue tied, as he originally imagined, but quietly angry. Still.

He's aware he is in the company of a man who can make him disappear from the face of the earth. And no one, not even Sherlock, would ever know what happened to the body.

John Watson could give a fuck.

The Army taught him several things, one of which is the wisdom of being direct.

Totally aware of the slightly charged atmosphere, John leans forward and clasps his hands. He keeps his steady gaze on Mycroft's face, the better to judge the older man's reactions.

"Mycroft, I want to know if Sherlock was ever – sent away. Against his will. Not sure what term to use here."

Mycroft's eyes do not even flicker.

"Did my brother tell you that?"

"Sherlock hasn't told me a damned thing, not consciously."

"Ah. We are talking about the unconscious mind then."

Mycroft considers, his eyes narrow and mouth pursed. He looks at John, considers the week's events, including his conversation with Thomas Fields, and nods. All of this takes him two seconds.

"Indeed. My brother's fever was rather high a few days ago. May I then assume that he, let us say, rambled in his delirium? And you overheard it?"

John's eyes narrow. "You can assume all you want Mycroft. But I'm not leaving here without the information."

Mycroft sets his drink down on the polished walnut surface beside him. "So we are discussing whatever feverish declarations he might have –"

"No, Mycroft, what we are discussing is whether or not you and Regina ever had Sherlock sectioned. And how long ago and what for?"

Dead silence.

"What would you have me say, John?"

John's eyes temporarily close.  _Fuck. And yet again - fuck!_  He opens his dark blue eyes and stares into the steel ones opposite him.

"Those are three questions, John, not one." The elder Holmes' tone is quiet, deliberate.

John keeps his tone of voice the same. "Then consider them my three wishes."

A hint of a smile. "That would presuppose that I am cast in the role of Genii or Djinn."

John, who served in Afghanistan for several years, knows full well what Djinn are. And Mycroft knows he was a soldier there and would be more than familiar with the local superstitions.

He stares at Mycroft, his voice adamant.

"Mycroft – I need to know. I'm not begging you. I'm  _telling_ you that you will tell me."

"And does Sherlock agree to this –"

"I don't give a flying fuck what Sherlock agrees to or doesn't. Frankly, he doesn't know I'm here. Although I will certainly tell him, when I see him later."

Mycroft folds his hands in his lap and considers John Watson as if he's seeing him, really seeing him, for the first time.

Perhaps he is.

John spreads his hands. "Bloody hell, Mycroft, you know all about me. Everything there is to know. I'm an open book. And in less than a month, I'm joining myself to this man - your brother - body, heart and soul."

Mycroft considers his words. "The point could be made, John, that the joining has long since occurred."

John's eyes widen.  _That was a bit unexpected_. "I have a right to know, Mycroft."

Mycroft's gaze is stony. "I am not so certain about that John."

John stands abruptly, and paces a few feet, more to dissipate energy than as any form of frustration. He moves to stand in front of his brother-in-law, just a few feet away, and stares at him impassively.

Mycroft sighs, comes to his feet. The two men consider each other. John smiles grimly at the obvious posturing. Mycroft has over seven inches on him in height.

John draws himself up to his full five feet, seven inches and crosses his arms over his chest. He looks back impassively at the taller man, obviously unimpressed.

He sees Mycroft's eyes rake over his form and he knows –  _he knows_  – what the elder Holmes brother sees. God knows, he's lived with Sherlock enough to recognize being deduced when it happens.

And there's nothing to deduce, really. Is he dressed like he pets kittens for a living? Yes. Deliberate? Of course. Is he angry – Hell, Yes.

And here he is, John Watson, bearding the lion in his den, demanding information about his future husband, the man he has committed to for the remainder of his life.

" _Why 'remainder'? Why did I think that, instead of the obvious - for the_  rest _of my life?_   _The_ rest _of our lives."_

John wonders what his subconscious mind knows that his conscious doesn't. Well, screw that, too. What comes, comes.

"How old was he, Mycroft? And where was he sent? And for how long? Who was over his care?"

Mycroft considers John Watson as he stands there. Then he nods slowly. "Very well, John. My brother was 15 when he was  _sent away_  as you put it."

John is floored. "Fifteen? Good God! He's your younger brother – "

Mycroft plunges his hands in the pockets of his trousers. "Sherlock was what I believe is referred to as a  _head case_ , John. And I assure you that whatever your experience has been in this type of – "

"If you're asking me if I've had to section patients at the clinic, when I had a job as a doctor, the answer is Yes. I'm very well aware of what is involved."

"John, I can assure you that whatever facilities you have in mind, Sherlock was a patient in a diametrically –

"How the hell do you even know what type of facility I have in mind? For fucks sake, Mycroft, he was 15!"

John begins to pace up and down, past the walnut bookcases. His mind whirls.

Mycroft stands and watches him pace.

"John, my younger brother was a "guest" in an extremely upscale establishment, if you will, on the continent. More of a resort. He had a clean, quiet room, every possible amenity, constant monitoring and care. Everything he needed –"

"Except his freedom. Except you." John's hands clench in his pockets and the tightness in his chest threatens to choke off his air supply. He stands in front of row upon row of leather-bound volumes and shakes his head. All this knowledge – and this bloody Holmes doesn't have a clue.

He turns to face Mycroft.

Mycroft frowns. "John, you are emotionally invested."

"Damn straight I'm emotionally invested."

John moves back to his chair, stares at it, then sits down. Across from him, the elder Holmes brother reseats himself.

John stares at his clasped hands, then lifts his head. His dark blue eyes reflect his inner anguish. "Mycroft, how could you do this? How could Regina? This is your younger brother we're talking about. He's - he's Sherlock.

"Exactly."

Mycroft speaks quietly, aware the dynamics in the room have changed.

Dead silence.

John continues to look at his clasped hands. He does not raise his head to look at Sherlock's brother.

"How long? How long was he –"

"Seven weeks, John. Not even two full months. Just until it was felt that he could be released in our care."

John leans forward and rests his forehead in his palms. He cannot look at this man right now. He can't.

After a minute during which neither man speaks, John's voice is quiet, nearly a whisper.

"Tell me this. Was he held against his will?"

Mycroft's tone is calm, conciliatory.

"John. If you are asking me if a 15-year-old adolescent, never mind his intellectual age, wished to be removed from his home, his daily surroundings, from everything he held dear, and sent to stay in a strange environment, no matter how caring that environment may be, then the answer is No, John. Of course he didn't want to go."

John speaks in the same near whisper. "So ... against his will."

"I believe I said that, John."

John speaks to the carpet. "Was this your decision or Regina's?"

"Our mother's, with my concurrence, John. I was 22. It was a  _disturbing_ experience for me, as well. This is Sherlock we are talking about, John. And whatever disagreements we have had and will undoubtedly have in the future, I love my little brother, John. And always have. And that is not a statement I make lightly."

John nods. He still doesn't look up.

He opens his eyes and talks to the carpet, to his shoes.

"Drugs?"

"Of course, John."

"Which, what kind?"

Mycroft speaks gently, as if to a child. "A varied mix, John. Opiates. Oxy. Heroin."

John's head whips up. "Heroin! How in fuck did he even get hold of all that!"

In answer, Mycroft just raises an eyebrow.

John's heart sinks. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly out of his depth.

"Heroin."

"Yes, John. Although we were able to stop that one immediately. At least at that time in his life."

John raises his head. "But he was using again just a few years later."

Mycroft nods slowly. "Yes, John. Sherlock overdosed the first time when he was 21. The second time, he was 24. I found him the first time and got him to the hospital and into a rehabilitation program. Which obviously, did not take. Gregory Lestrade found him the second time, a few minutes, seconds actually, before his heart stopped."

John shudders. He lifts his head and looks at Mycroft.

"I know the rest from here," John says.

"I'd be surprised if you knew it all, John. Just what my brother has been willing to tell you."

John's hands remain clasped in front of him. He's bent over like an old man.

"Mycroft, what else do I need to know?"

Mycroft tilts his head and watches John.

"John, do you have any idea, any inkling of what it's like to _be_  my brother ? To see the world as he sees it? To  _be_ that brain? There is nowhere he can go, no one he can talk with, nothing he can see, that his brain doesn't immediately begin to –"

"Make the connections," John whispers.

"Exactly."

"No, Mycroft. My brain is disgustingly ordinary. Thank god. I have no firsthand knowledge of what it's like to be your brother."

"John, Sherlock solved his first puzzle when he was just a child. A charming little mystery that involved our family cook and some missing garden vegetables."

Mycroft's voice softens, as if he speaks more to himself than to John.

"Once he knew his deductions were correct, he was off and running, to so speak."

John looks at him over his hands. "How old was he?"

"Three. He was three years old, John, when he stumbled upon his life's work. He spoke when he was six months old. Complete sentences at seven months. Walked at nine months. He discovered science and mathematics at an incredibly early age."

"As he grew, his enthusiasm for life, for everything on this planet, grew by leaps and bounds. Sherlock was learning every minute, John, learning, absorbing. Making the connections. Gradually, his proclivities showed themselves. He loved a mystery. No, that is the wrong word to use. Let us say he couldn't abide a mystery, couldn't bear to think that some things remained hidden. The truth had to be found out, uncovered, at all costs. He was totally obsessed with the violin by the time he was seven."

John looks at him with sadness. "What happened, Mycroft?"

"What always happens, John. Life. My brother's classmates, his few friends, could not understand him. And what is not understood –"

"Is destroyed," John's voice is a near whisper.

"Exactly."

"John, Sherlock's natural abilities, his intelligence, so far above average as to often appear other worldly,  _being_  that brain, what it means, John, is that at any given time, Sherlock experiences each and every event as if it has just occurred."

Mycroft looks at John with a tinge of sadness. "My brother actually experiences life in the  _Now_  John, as I believe the phrase goes. He's well aware of time passing, of the meaning of memory. But his eidetic memory means that he is constantly bombarded by events, people, data that by its nature and number has to be categorized, stored. He does this in order to cope with the constant influx of new data."

John says carefully, "Hence the deleting and the whole 'mind palace' thing?"

Mycroft nods. "A bit grandiose, but yes."

"And it has been this way since he was a child?"

"Yes, John. Increasing proportionately, of course, as he matured."

John talks more to himself than to Mycroft. "When he became a teen and the wonder began to wear off, when the taunts began … the drugs …that explains it. He couldn't cope any longer."

"No, John, he couldn't. And I blame myself for that. Sherlock was 15. I was 22. Already through Uni and started on my career. I saw my brother sporadically. We lost track for a while."

John looks at him and frowns. "But, Regina –"

"I cannot speak for our mother, John. Some things are private. This does not mean that you cannot go to her on your own."

John nods. But he's still not satisfied. He struggles with his next question.

"Mycroft, I'm not even certain how to ask this one."

"Just ask, John."

John nods. "All right." He looks up at Mycroft and speaks bluntly.

"Sherlock is  _himself_ , he's  _Sherlock_ with everyone but me."

Mycroft considers his future brother–in-law. "I'm not sure I follow, John."

John sighs. "Mycroft, unless we're discussing a case, or among other people, when it's just Sherlock and me – in our more private moments – "

Mycroft raises one eyebrow. John struggles on.

"For fucks' sake, I'm talking about private conversation. Everyday moments. He's  _younger_. I don't know exactly how to describe it. His voice, mannerisms, the way he speaks to me, his actions and reactions, he's ... just younger, Mycroft."

John lifts his head to stare into Mycroft's frankly sympathetic gaze. "I'm not explaining this very well."

Mycroft nods. "You're doing quite well. He, let us say, defers to you, John?"

John nods. "That's it exactly. He defers to me. It can be a bit disquieting. His tone of voice is different. He sounds, he acts almost as if –"

Mycroft says with a touch of humor, "As if you are the father figure and he the son?"

"God, when you put it like that, it sounds, but yes. Not quite, but nearly."

Mycroft unclasps his hands and leans forward toward the military man.

"John, our father removed himself from the picture when Sherlock was less than ten years old. Sherlock has memories of him, I am certain. But nothing beyond that age. Until you came into his life, John, my brother has had two other close male figures in his life whom he could use as role models."

John looks at him. "You."

Mycroft inclines his head. "Myself. And Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"When I received the call that Sherlock had overdosed the second time, my career had already taken off and it more or less demanded my entire attention. All I can say is that after speaking with Lestrade – and he was not a Detective Inspector at that time, not yet – I was pleased that someone had come into my brother's life who could act as an appropriate role model for Sherlock. Provided Sherlock survived and didn't alienate this relationship, as well. Eventually, the D.I. supplanted me in Sherlock's regard. We had grown apart."

John smiles. It's a tiny smile. "If by 'grown apart' you mean constant sniping, digging at each other, one-upmanship –"

Mycroft sighs with impatience. "I believe I just said that, John."

John shakes his head. "God, this is just so  _wrong_. You mean he regards me as some sort of parental –"

"No. John. I am not saying that at all. Far from it. I am saying that when it comes to social interactions, even in his more private moments, Sherlock will come across to you as a slightly younger version of the grown man, the adult. You are his role model, John. He takes his social interaction cues from you."

"A bit not good," John murmurs.

Mycroft cocks his head. "I beg your pardon?"

John shakes his head. "Nothing. Something that happened the first night, well, our first case together. Something he said."

"Ah, yes, of course."

There is silence in the room for a moment. Somewhere, John hears the quiet ticking of a grandfather clock.

Mycroft lifts his glass and takes a sip.

"John, when I went off to University, I despaired of leaving my younger brother in our mother's hands. By that time, she was alone. Her husband, our father, was no longer in the picture. And her idea of love, although admirable in all respects but one … frankly, John, I was afraid she would ruin him."

John looks at him. "Extreme possessiveness."

Mycroft smiles. "Yes. Although it does not appear to bother you that much, John."

"It should do, though, shouldn't it?" John says with humor. He thinks for a moment.

"You're smarter than he is, Mycroft. Although it darn near kills him to admit it. How do you handle it?"

Mycroft shakes his head. "It isn't easy, John, on the best of days. In my case, I have constant distractions in the form of a rather demanding occupation. What might come across to others as a tremendous responsibility, in my case is more of a Godsend, as it serves to calm and steady my natural  _inclinations_ , what I consider to be the basic Holmes nature."

John listens.

"In Sherlock's instance, well, his chosen profession should tell you that. He cannot abide a mystery. That which remains hidden. Except in one instance, John, he must know why others do what they do. And anything that stands in the way of that –"

John nods. "That's why the dark moods, the depressions." He thinks for a moment. "You said, 'except in one instance' –"

" _You_ , John. You remain the one enduring mystery in my brother's life."

John looks startled, then blushes and lowers his head to look at the carpet.

Mycroft studies the bent head for a moment.

"John, I do not believe that you give yourself enough credit. Have you any idea of the marked good you have done him? Surely you must be aware of the progress he has made since he met you?"

John shakes his head. "That was all Sherlock's doing, not mine. His own strength and determination."

Mycroft regards the doctor with amusement. " _His_  strength, John?"

John frowns. Shakes his head again.

"John, how many dark moods – depressions - has he had in the two years you've known each other?"

John lifts his head. His ocean blue eyes meet Mycroft's. "Three before we were a couple. One since."

Mycroft nods. "And the migraines?"

John answers evenly. "Three. In two years. That I knew of and recognized, that is."

"Four episodes of depression, then, in two years. John, would it surprise you to know that my brother experienced over seven of these "dark moods" as you call them in the twelve-month period before he met you? And at least one migraine every two months or so? And that is why I had such high hopes for your friendship? And partnership? "

John looks at him. Clearly, it has not occurred. Mycroft nods again.

"Seven, John, in just under twelve months. And yet you sit there and tell me you've seen four in two years. I would call that progress, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft stands to move in front of the military man. He puts one hand on John's shoulder. John looks up but does not recoil or flinch from Mycroft's determined touch.

"John, if I cannot make you realise what a good influence you have been on my brother, steadying, moral, constant, than perhaps he can do so himself. As for the events which occurred when Sherlock was younger, well, if I were in your shoes, perhaps I would choose to speak with our mother about those."

He drops his hand and moves to pick up his glass. "But I doubt if Regina Holmes can or is willing to give you any more answers than I have. Indeed, John, I have been a great deal more forthcoming than our mother ever would be."

Mycroft seats himself, glass in hand.

"John, I cannot make this statement on Sherlock's behalf. He has to do that. But I delivered a document to him a few days ago, when both of you were ill. And left it there for Sherlock. It's a rather interesting document, telling."

He looks steadily at John Watson. "You might, just might give him the opportunity to share this with you. And whatever discussions you choose to have with our mother, well, you will have ample opportunity this weekend at the house."

John sits quietly as he tries to absorb everything Mycroft has told him.

Mycroft sets his empty glass down on the side table.

"John, shall I ask my driver to take you home to Baker Street ?

John can only nod. "Please. Sherlock will be waiting for me."

**OooOooO**

John sits in the back of the black car, same driver, same silence, and considers his conversation with Mycroft Holmes. Something his sister Harry once told him, when she separated from Clara, comes back to him. "Fall in love they said. It will be fun, they said."

He shakes his head.

John thanks Mycroft's agent and rushes through their front door. He looks up the 17 steps, then hurries upstairs, taking them two at a time.

"Sherlock," he calls as he enters the flat.

No Answer.

He pauses just inside, glances around their living area, then looks in the kitchen. The violin lies on the sofa, its bow next to it. The case open and propped up against the sofa, as if its owner had been diverted.

Finally he walks down the hall to their bedroom, passing the loo. The bathroom door is open. He glances in, finally pushes open the door to their bedroom.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stands at the window in the semi-dark room, his back to the door, looking down at the street. His hands are in the pockets of his trousers. He does not turn.

John comes all the way into the room, past the two beds, and moves to stand behind the detective.

He puts a tentative hand on one arm. Sherlock shudders slightly, but does not turn or acknowledge John.

"Sherlock?"

Outside the window, the evening light has gone violet, soft. One by one, the street lamps come on.

Still the detective does not speak.

John walks around in front of Sherlock and looks up at his eyes. Sherlock glances down into John's dark blue eyes, his gaze stony.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John's voice is low, hesitant.  _What the fuck is wrong?_

"What did he tell you, John? And whatever was so bloody important that the moment I left our flat you wasted no time in going to my brother?"

John goes still. He looks into the grey eyes, sees no hint of green or blue. He frowns slightly, uncertain of how to answer. So he says nothing.

"I imagine Mycroft had a very great deal to say. He's been biding his time, since you and I met. Waiting. Obvious. Oh yes, I'm more than certain that he was able to  _sway_  your opinion of me. But then, that's what he's best at, patience and subterfuge."

Sherlock continues to look in his soldier's eyes.  _His soldier no longer_ he fears _._ "They are, after all, Holmes family traits."

John's mouth opens slightly and he pulls in a deep breath.

"Sherlock, it wasn't like that," he says quietly, and even as he speaks, he doesn't believe they are having this conversation.

"Then tell me what it was like, John. What did you need to know so desperately, that you couldn't fucking  _ask me_?"

John looks into the pale eyes. "All right. I had a few questions. I went to Mycroft for the answers. You would not have told me what I needed to know, Sherlock."

The detective takes his hands out of his pockets, his gaze never leaving John's.

"Well, we'll never know, will we? I was not given the opportunity to satisfy your prurient curiosity, now was I?

Now, John's mad. He takes a deep breath and his eyes narrow.

"Prurient – oh for fucks' sake. Is that what you think? That I had some idle, stupid, unimportant reason for –"

"No, John. I'm absolutely certain that whatever your reasons were, that you felt they were valid."

Sherlock brings up his right hand. He reaches with his left and takes John's left hand in his. His touch is cool and his fingers grasp John's wrist, his touch brooks no argument.

He drops something in the palm of John's hand and closes the doctor's fingers over it.

"I will save you the trouble of asking for this. I am certain, after your tete-a-tete with Mycroft, that this was the next item on your agenda."

John's eyes widen. "My  _agenda_?" he says in quiet disbelief.

Slowly, he looks down at his hand. He opens his fingers. His dog tag lies on his palm, the one that up until a few moments ago, was in its rightful place – around Sherlock's neck. It's simple chain coils around the single round disc. He glances at his name, the numbers stamped on the slightly battered circular bit of metal. He stares, then looks back up at the detective.

His heart begins to pound in his chest.

"Sherlock, whatever you think, whatever is going through your head right now, you're wrong. I didn't go to Mycroft with any ulterior motive. I didn't go just to satisfy my curiosity about –"

"You'll forgive me, doctor, if I do not believe you." He plunges his hands back into his pockets, turns his back on John and resumes looking out the window.

John stands there, a scant two feet away from the love of his life and continues to finger the dog tag in his palm.

Finally, he lifts his head to look at the other man.

 _If this were yesterday,_ _even the week before, any other day than the day it is, he would be angry. Livid_ ,  _in fact._

_And this might end very badly, indeed._

But it is today. Here. Now. And Mycroft Holmes has put certain truths in John's hands.

John has taken those truths to heart, knowing full well what his final and complete acceptance of this man means.

As John stares at Sherlock's silent figure, at the stiff set of his shoulders in the elegantly tailored suit jacket, the hands in the pockets of the designer trousers, as he mentally replays the sound of Sherlock's voice, angry words, yes, but spoken in a tone that was utterly broken, devoid of emotion, his heart swells.

 _"I thought I loved him_ ," John thinks, his eyes filling. " _That? The other day? That was nothing. This, this, is_   _love. I'm choking on it. Dear God, I'm not big enough. Or my body isn't, not big enough to hold the emotions this man calls up in me. He expects me to get angry now. To turn and storm out. He expects it, because as he said, everyone leaves."_

John looks at the rigid back, the dark curls, tinged slightly auburn by the light from the street lamps below, the small expanse of pale neck he can see, and his heart threatens to beat out of his chest. His ribs actually hurt from holding his breath.

He clenches his fist around the dog tag and feels the sharp-edged disc cut into his palm. A tiny bit of blood wells up and spills over onto his skin, warm, wet. And still he clenches the bit of metal, tighter and tighter. The drops begin to fill his palm and slowly spill down his wrist.

He takes a breath. And speaks as firmly and confidently as he can to this broken man.

"Sherlock – you're right. I did lie to you."

The rigid shoulders slump ever so slightly and if John had not been looking straight at his lover's back, he would not have seen it. His heart breaks.

"But I didn't lie about why I went to your brother. I lied two days ago, Sherlock. Or, rather, two nights ago. I lied to you here, in this room. The night you asked me if you had said anything during your fever, anything personal."

Sherlock doesn't turn. His body is stone. John can barely see the slight movement which tells him the other man even continues to breathe.

"You did say some things Sherlock. Personal things. Most of them had to do with our cases, with us, you and me. You talked about how we met, how you fell in love with me. You talked about a lot of things, Sherlock. You said something about Moriarty once. And about Mycroft. And your mother. You talked about the hell we had just gone through. But most of all you talked about me, Sherlock. About how you loved me. How you wouldn't give me up to anyone, for anything. About what we have together. But once, Sherlock, once, you said something that made me so damned mad, so bloody angry with your brother and yes, your Mum, that I went over to Mycroft's today with the firm intention of bloodying his nose for him."

John moves a bit closer to the other man. Sherlock doesn't move, much. But his head tilts ever so slightly. John nods to himself. And keeps talking.

"Sherlock, when your fever was so high and you were delirious, you said that you were afraid. Afraid if you couldn't keep tight rein over your mind, couldn't keep your thoughts orderly, straight, that you'd be 'sent away - again.'"

John looks down at the lacerated skin of his palm. At the red blood that fills all the small lines and crevices of his hand and drips down his wrist. The drops begin to fall onto the carpet at his feet. He firmly clamps his hand around the tag again.

"Sherlock, I was wrong. And you were right. I should have asked you about it." He looks up at the back of the dark head.

"But we've been together for nearly two years now. One year of that as a couple. And not once, in all that time, have you mentioned this one event." John's gaze travels down the elegant suit.

"I know, or I think I know, why you chose not to ever bring that up. And I don't blame you for it. I wouldn't – if it were me – if I had been - oh bloody hell." John breaks off and stares at the dark curls.

"Sherlock, I've been so damned mad, every time I thought about it, about your words, the way you said them and how you said them, that I couldn't see straight. All I've thought about, the only thing that's been on my mind, is confronting Mycroft. Getting the answers. And then going out to see your Mum. And confronting her."

John watches the red blood drip down his arm and onto the rug. They will most definitely have to get a professional to clean the carpet.

He could give a fuck.

He looks back up. "Sherlock, I didn't give your brother a chance to refuse to answer. I asked, no, I demanded that he tell me if he and your Mother had done this to you. Sent you -  _away_. And when and why and for how long. They hurt you, Sherlock. And I wasn't with you then. I wasn't around to protect you from that. I wasn't able to -. Shite. The idea that your own Mum, your own Mum! ... it's all I could do to think or breathe or do anything these last two days – I couldn't - "

Suddenly John's words are silenced as one determined consulting detective whirls, grabs him by his upper arms and then bends his head. And proceeds to kiss the protests right out of him.

John's hand opens and the bloodied dog tag falls to the carpet at his feet. He grabs Sherlock by the waist and his fingers dig into the soft fabric.

"Sherl –"

"Shut up, John. Just  _shut up_." Sherlock's soft lips claim his mouth. His tongue demands entry and John opens his mouth willingly. Heat pools in his gut and chest and flushes his cheeks and temple. He holds onto the other man for all he is worth. His eyes sting behind his closed eyelids. He opens them to look up at the other man.

Sherlock pulls back, holds onto John's waist with one hand while he lifts the other to brush the hair from John's eyes. He looks steadily into the dark blue gaze.

"You have questions." It's a statement.

John stares back. And nods.

"Fair enough. What do you want to know? And I always talk better in bed, John."

John stares into the pale eyes. And nods again.

**OooOooO**

**The sentence "And Sherlock always wants something of him," harkens back to the astonishing Fic of IShouldBeOverThis - Accessories; Ch. 4 - Voice. If you have not checked out her wonderful Sherlock fiction, please do so. Also, please do not miss what may be her most brilliant work:  - The Man No One Liked. Wonderful! Go...Run...Read...!**

 'sky'


	8. Chapter 8

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 8**

**WHEN DID YOU FALL IN LOVE WITH ME? – Part Three**

**"We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright."**

—  **Ernest Hemingway _, A Moveable Feast_**

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – 1** **0:00 pm**

John lies in bed, his bright head against the soft pillows. Sherlock lies on top of him, his dark head turned to the side. His cheek currently rests on John's breastbone, the tumbled curls just under John's chin. His arms and hands are under John's shoulders.

Sherlock's hands have alternately fisted in John's silky hair or turned to clench in the soft cotton of the pillow case. They haven't clenched for a while. Now, he just strokes along the back of John's head, crystalline eyes closed. He feels John's heartbeat as a steady pulse against his right temple.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock's upper back, just under the bony scapulae, his hands splayed to hold onto the other man as if something is at work to pull him out of John's grasp. He stares up at the ceiling.

The gentle sound of rain comes in the half-open window.

Both men are nude, their bodies warm where skin meets skin, cooler everywhere else as the rain-washed breeze blows over them.

John considers his words. His left hand caresses up and down. Up and down. His slightly calloused fingers brush goose bumps into the marble skin.

"Why are you like this?" he asks quietly.

A moment's silence.

"Specify." Sherlock does not open his eyes. "Our earlier argument or – "

"All right. Spock. This evening. When you thought I'd – well, to be frank, Sherlock, I'm not exactly certain what it is you thought. That I was leaving you? Breaking a trust? Did you view it as a betrayal that I went to Mycroft to –"

The response comes in a tortured whisper. "Mycroft."

"Mycroft," John says quietly. "And I apologised for that. Would you have answered my questions? You hate answering questions, Sherlock. Being on the receiving end. Can you at least see why I did what I did? Why I was angry with your brother and your Mum? Why it was imperative I get at the facts? Which I haven't, by the way. Not by a long shot."

The silence stretches out and John continues to look upward at the ceiling, not really seeing anything in particular.

"John, what do you expect me to say?"

The dark head dips into the well between John's good shoulder and his neck. Soft lips brush at the space below John's right ear. The doctor's breathing accelerates at the intimate contact and he struggles to keep his heart rate steady. It's too soon and besides, he has questions. And by God, this man is going to answer them.

Sherlock continues to kiss the warm skin. When he realises John does not respond, other than to tighten his grasp on his shoulders, he sighs and turns his head and shuts his eyes again.

The soft curls tickle John's chin.

"Just tell me what to say, John. And I'll say it," Sherlock murmurs. "What is appropriate in this instance?" The silken tones deepen. Stretch.

The soft baritone huffs over John's skin, a slide of honey, warm and smoothly dark. John knows he does it on purpose. And he knows why. John has always known, more or less, when his lover attempts to manipulate him with _the_  voice.

And fuck all, it usually works.

Not this time.

" _He can sway kingdoms with that voice,"_ John thinks. " _Topple empires. He's already toppled mine."_

John thinks of his response. Considers waffling, but then discards the notion.  _Screw it, then. Full frontal assault it is._

"Sherlock, was part of your anger because you felt, if I'd known you were sent away from your home and why, that I would somehow feel differently about you?"

Sherlock still does not open his eyes. But his right hand momentarily tightens on the back of John's head. His fingers play with the ends of John's hair, then move downward to scrape fingernails against the warm skin of John's neck.

"I'm tired, John."

"Me, too. Answer the question."

"The phrase 'sent away' is incorrect, John. You are being deliberately obtuse." Sherlock's voice is a mere whisper now. "Or purposefully kind."

He keeps his head turned away from John.

"What would be correct, then?"

"Obtuse, then. 'Sectioned,' John. I was evaluated by a psychiatrist engaged by my mother and determined to be incapable of functioning on a psychological level with - or interacting with - my peer group. Most assuredly because, by that time, I was a habitual user of recreational drugs."

John's eyes close briefly in pain and then he reopens them. Beside them, the cool breeze rustles the curtains inward and he can see the slight movement in his peripheral vision.

"Drugs you obtained … where?"

Sherlock's deep tones huff in John's ear. "Really, John. They were everywhere. If not in the University itself, then on the street. Obtaining the drugs was no problem at all. Although it  _became_  problematic once Mycroft and Mummy suspected my activities and cut off my funding."

"Funding?"

"I had regular – what you would call 'pocket money,' John. And of course, what I could steal."

"You stole money for your drugs." It is not a statement.

"Of course, John. I was 15 fucking years old. I stole from my mother, as well from Mycroft. My brother usually had cash reserves lying around, even though, by that time, he had left me. But there was always some cash in the house. It was no problem discovering Mycroft's hiding places. Or Mummy's. Until they finally noticed what was going on and put a stop to it. Eventually, the purse strings were cut. And I was on my own finding ways to –"

"Yes. All right."

"I never stole from our staff, however, although it would have been child's play. Somehow, I felt we were on the same side."

John's eyes widen at this information. It has been his experience that once a younger person begins a drug habit, all such social niceties are off. And what Sherlock just said about Mycroft 'leaving him' is revealing. Mycroft left to attend University. He had not 'left Sherlock,' yet that is how the younger Holmes brother obviously saw it. As a betrayal.

The first of many?

John thinks about his words. Because he's about to ask _the_  question, the one that is currently threatening to churn his guts, and if they can't get past this …

John holds on to the shivering man in his arms and stares bloody murder at the innocent ceiling. He thinks for a moment.

Sherlock just breathes and holds on to him. And waits.

The one person they should have been talking about hasn't even entered the conversation, John notices. Not for the first time, he wonders about Sherlock and Mycroft's father. Other than the vague reference that Mycroft made earlier that afternoon, neither Holmes brother has ever mentioned him to John.

After his own debacle of a childhood, John has no intention of referring to the missing male parent in Sherlock's presence, or Mycroft's, for that matter.

But it doesn't keep him from wondering.

No. What has the Army doctor in a strop is the one question he has yet to ask Sherlock. He has faced down the Taliban (" _Lost that one, Johnny boy,"_  he thinks.) He has stared down death and raced into firefights to save lives; grappled with child murderers and child molesters and countless thieves, helped corral drug dealers and dealt with mad Irish serial killers. He's faced his own mortality on more than one occasion, unimpressed by his close brushes with death … not to mention the filthy drug that damn near killed him.

Apparently, he has also killed one of the deadliest snipers of the age. He has to take Sherlock's word on that one.

But the question …

John steadies his own heartbeat, as he tries to soothe Sherlock's breathing.

"Sherlock, you said that Mycroft and your mother clamped down on the purse strings."

Sherlock sighs, takes a series of small breaths, and finally nods. "Yes, John."

Sherlock is a genius .. IQ in the stratosphere.. for all that he feels he's been reduced to a pile of shivering bones at the moment. Still… he knows,  _he knows_  what John is about to ask. And God help him, he'll answer. Because he promised John.

But mostly, he just wants to lie.

"Sherlock – how did you buy the drugs?"

Sherlock stiffens in John's arms and John goes still, his mind races a mile a minute but his body and hands remain as steady as houses.

"John … I don't think I can …"

John's eyes narrow and then close. He dips his head slightly to inhale the scent of the dark curls against his cheek. "Shh….no worries," he says, as if he's talking to a child.

" _Maybe that's what I'm doing_ ," John thinks. Most of the time, that's an exact description of Sherlock. He's an overgrown child, dashing around London, delighted with his bright, shining toy of a city. Performing his magic tricks. Showing off. Looking to John for approval, for his social cues.

Looking to John for love.

John takes deep calming breaths so that Sherlock can feel the steady beat through his skin.

He vowed to be there for this man. For as long as he is spared. And if this is what being there means, then fuck it all, he's up for the challenge. Screw elder scary Big Brothers and equally terrifying Mums-in-law.

_He'll be there for Sherlock Holmes. As long as he's needed – and wanted._

John's not going anywhere. And he needs Sherlock to understand that. But in order to get them through this, he needs answers.

John waits for Sherlock to answer the question, all the while a small part of him is afraid that Sherlock  _will_ answer the question.

_Screw this, too. He has to know what he's up against. Or all of this is for naught._

He lowers his voice and speaks as soothingly as he can. "Sherlock, whatever it is, it's okay."

The detective shudders and speaks quickly, as if by racing through the words, he can pull their teeth and negate their power.

"I traded my microscope, my lab equipment, and later, my first and second practice violins."

John winces at the mental image of Sherlock handing over his violins. He shakes his head slightly to clear his thoughts.

"And when your lab equipment was gone?"

John holds his breath but his hands keep stroking over the cool skin. It's coming out in a moment. And he wills himself to be calm. After all, he knows what Sherlock is about to tell him. But he has to make him say it.

"I .. might have traded sex for it, John. I don't remember. But I might have done."

_And oh God, there it is._

John blinks tired eyes against sudden tears, but says nothing.

Sherlock misinterprets his soldier's silence. He tosses out his words as if by speaking fast enough and long enough, he can force John to understand. Force. Him. To. See.

"I was an addict, John. I craved the drugs. They helped with the –" He stops abruptly. He was about to say, "They helped drown out the shrieking," but he stops and doesn't say it. "I would have done anything, anything, to get the next high. I sold everything I had to sell, John. Everything I had."

And now he's said it. And still John does not reply.

 _Sherlock Holmes, if you ever questioned whether there is something you should_ not _say to this man, this Army doctor, this soldier, and if you ever wondered if you would know when to shut up and Just. Stop. Talking. Well, there it was. That was the moment._

_Pity you missed it._

Because any fucking second now, John will let go of him and swing his bare legs over the mattress and leave their bed and he will have to follow and explain, or try to, and John will get that look on his face  _– Christ, he probably has that look now_.

Sherlock strokes through John's hair and holds his breath.

John does not leave their bed.

"Sherlock –" his voice is quiet. John tries to feel his way around this one.

Sherlock's eyes clamp more tightly shut and he shudders again, then goes still.

John's fingers dig slightly into the shoulder muscles gone suddenly rigid under his hands. This is the answer he expected. Yet it calls up more questions. And explains some things that John has questioned since their first night together. Resolutely, he yanks his thoughts back to the present.

He just told Sherlock  _it's okay._  And of course, it's not. It's so fucking  _not_ okay.

He cannot keep the rage from bubbling up and threatening to choke him.

_Where were the parents? Where was the watchdog of an elder brother? Where were fucking Mycroft and Regina? And Sherlock's highly questionable, "removed-himself-from-the-picture" father? Where in bloody hell was Mr. Holmes? Jeesus…he doesn't even know the man's name. But he had to exist. The brothers didn't just spring, full grown, from some goddess's forehead._

_Although they might have done_ , he muses.

John says nothing. But he starts breathing deeply again and by the slow up and down motion of his chest and the gentle stroking over the skin, he lets Sherlock know that he's staying right here. In this bed. With Sherlock.

"You don't remember," he says quietly. "Is that a lie?"

Sherlock bends his head and presses his lips against his soldier's warm skin. "No, John. I really do not remember. My memories are muddled from that period in my life."

"All right."

John lets the 'trading sex for it' comment pass. Later for that.

"Sherlock, when you were sectioned – sent away – who was with you at that time? Were you just …. I don't know, abandoned there? You had doctors, right? And a psychiatrist? Was your Mum –"

"Mummy was there. She took me, I think. She was there and then she wasn't. I saw Mycroft occasionally. John, I really do not remember the early days of that period of my life. And most of those weeks are a blur to me."

" _God, this is painful, John. Please stop. Can you hear me, John? Can we stop now?"_

John sighs and he bends his head to brush his lips over the dark curls.

"Let it go then."

Sherlock nods, relieved that the most painful bit is over. But he doesn't speak again. He hides his face against his soldier's neck.

"Sherlock, do you remember – what the fuck am I saying? Of course, you remember. That day I told you that there is nothing you have to do to keep me by your side. Nothing? Just be yourself?"

Sherlock does not respond, at first. When he does, his voice is muffled against John's skin.

"I remember."

"And didn't you realise the implication in that statement - that, by default, nothing you did  _before_  we met had any bearing on my feelings, on  _us_ , today?"

"I hadn't yet made the extrapolation, John."

John smiles in the darkened room. "Can you make it now?"

Sherlock turns his head into the shoulder. He presses a single kiss against John's bare shoulder.

"Done, John."

"Thank you."

John's hands flatten against Sherlock's back. He can feel the lean muscles shift under his fingers. What he cannot feel is the detective's ribs, not without pressing inward. John has made it his mission to see to it that the other man eats more than once every two days. Sherlock has put on at least two pounds in the past few weeks. And for that John takes the credit.

He continues to stroke Sherlock's back. He continues to wait.

"You knew I was a user, John."

"Yes. You told me. Although I did not realise you started that young. And?"

Sherlock takes a breath and lifts himself on his palms the better to see his soldier's face. The men's faces are mere inches apart. John's dark blue eyes look into the clear grey-green ones.

"Circumstances became  _unclear_  when I was younger, John. It was extremely annoying."

John does not answer. He just nods slightly and continues to rub small circles into the cool skin.

"I attended University quite young, John. And there were – "

"Temptations?" John asks. He tries to keep his tone level, calm.

Sherlock frowns and a small line appears over the bridge of his nose. John finds it oddly endearing and lifts his right hand to press a finger against the tiny line. He smiles into the oddly clear eyes.

"Uni can be a bitch at the best of times, Sherlock."

"I would accept that as an axiom. But most students do not respond to such pressures by developing drug habits of a rather disturbing caliber."

"You'd be surprised, Sherlock. I cannot even imagine what it was like for you, being so young, among those older students. What you went through, removed from your peer group. I can't imagine what everyone expected of you, at such a young age."

John's finger leaves the bridge of Sherlock's nose and finds it way to the pliable lips . He traces them from the center outward. Sherlock nuzzles the fingertip. He pulls John's finger into his mouth, sucks on it slowly, all the while he watches the dark blue eyes become darker still.

John's eyes widen at the press of desire in his groin and he withdraws his hand and returns it to Sherlock's back. He brushes his palm back and forth over the lean muscles while he thinks.

The other man dips his head and begins to slowly kiss his way along John's collar bone.

"Sherlock. I'm not sorry, not really, that I went to your brother. What I'm sorry for, Sherlock, is that I didn't tell you beforehand."

The warm lips continue to nuzzle along John's clavicle. "I would have stopped you, John."

"I don't think you could have, Sherlock. Short of tying me to a kitchen chair and locking the flat from the outside."

"The first part of that scenario has distinct possibilities, John."

John hesitates. "Why would you have objected? You said 'Mycroft' before. Why? Is it because he –"

"He's  _Mycroft,_  John. He – for all intents and purposes, Mycroft raised me. He was always  _there._  Until he left."

"To attend University, Sherlock. You had your Mum."

The soft kisses stop momentarily and John feels the warm huff of air that Sherlock expels along his neck.

"Yes, John. I had our mother." The beautiful voice goes flat and John's eyes narrow.

_Oh, Regina, we are so going to have a sit down this weekend._

Sherlock stops kissing John's collarbone. Instead, he moves to his right ever so slightly and begins to kiss his way across the starburst of scar tissue that maps John Watson's left shoulder.

John pulls him more closely into his embrace – and shuts his eyes.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft spends nearly five hours drafting his responses to the Korean delegation. Occasionally, he stands, moves around just to restore circulation. Three times he goes for tea and each time brings the steaming milky brew back to set beside his computer. He even remembers to drink one of the cups of Assam; the other two, forgotten nearly as fast as he sets them down next to his elbow, grow cold.

And then he's through with the piddling, the mundane. And now it's time for both sides to be adult and make up their minds. That neither will is a foregone conclusion. He's had his say. Done what he can do. The rest is up to them. He considers, almost idly, the cataclysmic circumstances if saner heads do not prevail. Then dismisses the thought.

Now he sits, as the rain falls outside his window, and opens an email forwarded to his computer by Anthea. The email has seven attachments, all audio files.

Each attachment has the same subject header. Only the number varies.

**J. Watson 1 – Dennison**

**J. Watson 2 – Dennison**

**J. Watson 3 – Dennison**

**J. Watson 1 – Oakton**

**J. Watson 2 – Oakton**

**J. Watson 1 – Dennison / Oakton**

**J. Watson 2 – Dennison / Oakton**

Seven sessions in all.

They sit here, waiting for him. Each session constitutes the slow, painstaking unraveling of a human mind. And psyche. Each bares the soul of John Watson, his brother-in-law, just a bit more.

Mycroft stares at the seven file attachments, his forefinger tapping on the mouse.

He mentally replays his meeting with John hours earlier. Hears again John's questions and his own answers. He sees again the quiet anguish and yes, anger, in his brother-in-law's voice.

His memories play backward over the past weeks until he arrives at the scene on the front lawn of the mansion. Once again, he watches John Watson as he stands in front of his younger brother and holds onto Sherlock, scant minutes after the military man had rescued his brother from a burning laboratory and exploding structure. A few hours after rescuing their mother from the kidnappers' hands.

And Mycroft sees himself as he extends his hand to John. In his minds eye, John's hand is cut, bruised and bloody. He takes Mycroft's hand in his. He hears the slightest intake of breath as John talks and breathes around the cracked ribs, strained nearly beyond endurance.

A few yards away, Rob Enders' body lies on the grass, covered over with a leather jacket.

The cursor blinks steadily at Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft's right hand moves over the mouse. He deliberately highlights the email with its seven attachments - and clicks delete, delete.

_There . Done. Humanity restored._

_For the time being._

Mycroft shuts down his computer and goes to make a cup of tea.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – Midnight**

After another quick shower, and cups of tea, which John drinks and Sherlock watches him drink, the men lie in bed and talk.

"Sherlock, a few days back, when we had the drug dealer, Sharpston, cornered in the alley, I'd lost my footing and gone down. You ran up and yanked my gun from my hands and drew down on –"

"I remember, John. You were on the pavement. He was cornered. And he had a gun. Problem?"

Sherlock's eyes finally open and he stares at the wall beyond the bed. He arches his back slightly, moving it upward into John's warm hands.

"You took my gun, Sherlock."

"Yes, John."

"You fired the gun, Sherlock."

The detective lifts his head to look at John. "He had a gun, John Watson. In case you had momentarily forgotten, said weapon was aimed straight at your head."

"I haven't forgotten, Sherlock. Nor have I forgotten how you drew his attention away from me, toward yourself."

"Yes. Exciting, wasn't it?"

John's hands stop moving and tighten against Sherlock's back. His eyes widen and he tries to control his breathing in order to slow down his thoughts. It's that or choke the holy shite out of the other man.

"No, Sherlock. I don't consider  _that_  incident exciting. Not at all."

"We're alive, John. The bad guy is in jail, or will be once he's out of hospital. One less cocaine dealer on the streets. Dimmock's happy. Haven't got a clue as to Lestrade's whereabouts at the moment, and –"

"Hush."

The detective stops speaking. He shuts his eyes again, the better to concentrate on the feel of John's strong hands and clever doctor fingers against his back. On the feel of John's lean stomach muscles as they contract under his own, on the brush of his calves against his soldier's lean legs.

He concentrates on the incredible feeling of friction as their pelvises slowly begin to rub, then grind against each other.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"What you did back there … you're not to ever do that again, okay?"

Silence.

"I cannot promise you that, John."

"Why not?"

"You know why not."

John's hands stop moving. His dark eyes close in frustration – and near anguish. He keeps his palms flattened against Sherlock's back the better to feel the detective's pulse through his fingertips, against his palms. After a few moments, he deliberately contracts, then releases, first his stomach, then his calf and thigh muscles. A second later, he feels Sherlock's muscles contract and then release against his body.

Their private shorthand for " _I love You, You idiot."_  And – " _Don't go where I can't follow."_

Sherlock lifts his head to brush his lips across John's chin. Then he turns his left cheek to rest along John's breastbone, just to the side of the scar.

"All this time, John Watson, and you still do not grasp your own importance." The deep tone drops to a husky whisper.

Sherlock's' grey-green eyes take in the darkened room, lit only by the glow of the street lights and the occasional far-off flash of lightening. He shuts his eyes and breathes in the warm scent of Army doctor, the musk scent of their recent lovemaking and the near overwhelming scent of rain. Cool. Almost cold. In a minute, he will have to move in order to pull the sheet and duvet over to cover them –

John's right hand reaches out, grasps the bedclothes in his fist and with one determined yank, manages to cover both men's cooling bodies.

Sherlock smiles, the barest upturn of the remarkable lips.

"I think I grasp my importance in the overall scheme of things, Sherlock. It's you who has no sense of self-preservation."

"Says the man who never turns away from a fight."

"I never rush into gunfights, Sherlock. And it's kind of my job, my part of this partnership to carry the bloody gun in the first place."

"Yes, John. You have a point. But your part, as you put it, is so much more than that."

 _This conversation is going nowhere,_  John thinks.

John takes a breath.  _Full frontal assault._

"I found the pills, Sherlock."

Silence.

"You didn't do a very good job of hiding them."

Silence.

"Which would presuppose that you meant me to find them. At least, that's the only reason I can think of for the world's only consulting detective to choose such an obvious hiding place. For two such deadly –"

"Shut up, John."

"Are we going to have another row? Because I'm really quite comfortable and if you decide to storm out of the flat –"

"I seem to recall neither of us stormed out of the flat today, John. As for the pills – boring. I told you about those once before, John."

"Yes. Yes, you did, as a matter of fact. Just a day or so ago, in a fevered delirium. Which I didn't think you remembered, by the way."

More silence.

"What? John, I….I have no memory of that. I was referring to my abduction from the mansion, when I offered to exchange myself for Mummy and – Oh."

John's hands begin to move and stroke again. To smooth out the agitation, as if his capable medical fingers can pull it from a human body by determined touch alone.

 _Possible,_  he thinks.  _Isn't this what masseuses do?"_

"John, after I sustained that head injury, when I was in the clearing with Mummy …"

"You did not 'sustain' a head injury Sherlock. You were deliberately targeted and damn near killed. I imagine you suffered several bouts of delirium before we got to you."

"Before  _you_  got to us, John, and yes, delirium proceeding from a head injury? Obvious."

"Yes, obvious. Again - Spock. So if you thought you had previously told me that you were intentionally hiding two deadly pills in the flat, in the event of a catastrophic occurrence, then you were wrong."

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"I didn't have a clue until a few nights back."

Sherlock expels a breath in a huff. But still doesn't speak.

"I imagine you hid them in order to prepare for some scenario which I can only assume I do not survive. In which case –"

"John. Don't."

Sherlock turns his head slightly, nose against the scar, eyes shut tight. He attempts to control his breathing.

"Please, John. Just. Don't."

"Sherlock –"

"John. There are some  _scenarios_  I cannot abide considering. So please, talk about something else. Anything else."

John thinks the other man's heart might hammer out of his chest. Concerned, he places one warm hand against Sherlock's cheek.

_This is too dangerous, by far. He needs to put a stop to this before Sherlock goes into cardiac arrest._

"Sherlock, calm your breathing down. Deep breaths, in and out. Nothing's happened to me. To us. We're both still here. Just. Breathe, Love. Can you do that for me? Calm your heartbeat?"

Sherlock moves to roll onto his back, moving off of John. John feels the sudden removal of the lean body as a loss of body weight and body heat, loss of closeness –

" _Paradise Lost,"_  he thinks. And wonders where the hell that one came from.

The two men, the Army doctor and the consulting idiot, lie on their backs, side by side, their hands brushing over each other.

"Sherlock, I guess there's no use in my asking you to flush those pills."

"None whatsoever, John."

"And if I flush them?" He has, in fact, already crushed the pills within their plasticine bag. Flushed the contents. And spent way too long scrubbing his hands. As if by doing so, he can scrub away the thought of Sherlock destroying himself if he should –

"Bart's is not that far away, John. And I have long since mastered their rather pitiful security measures."

John takes another deep breath, shuts, then reopens his eyes, and lets the fingers of his right hand stroke over the back of Sherlock's left.

"Love – Sherlock – talk to me about this. Please? Because I don't think I can go on, day by day, knowing that if I, oh I don't know, fall off the kerb into the path of a bloody taxicab or get attacked and eaten by wolves or come down with a virulent strain of –"

One quick movement and Sherlock is back on top of John, his full lips demanding against John's thin ones. As if he can kiss the words out of his lover's mouth.

"John, no more talking. No more questions. Regarding such, I might add that you never answered my question from months back."

John's eyes narrow as his mind races back. What bloody question? He tries to remember but his lover's lips are insistent.

John shuts his eyes and kisses Sherlock back, once, twice, as his hands find their way to the man's waist. Then he sighs and opens his eyes. A flash of lightning momentarily lights up their room.

"What question, Sherlock? And don't change the subject."

Sherlock lifts his head slightly. His gaze is serious.

"The night of the pool, John."

John's eyes widen.

_The pool. Moriarty. Red dots dancing over his lover's forehead, over the dark curls. Only he wasn't his lover – yet. What the fuck?!_

John's mind races back. And he just manages to suppress a slight groan.

 _Oh. Right._ That  _question. How did Moriarty capture him, cover him in explosives, and send him out like the good little puppet he was? Bloody hell. He told Sherlock that he wasn't ready to -_

John uses both hands to gently push against Sherlock's chest.

The detective rises up on both hands and clear grey meets deep blue.

"Fight fair," John whispers. "Or don't fight at all."

"Given a choice, I prefer the latter, John."

Sherlock continues to hold himself off John's chest by supporting himself on his splayed palms.

"Are we really going to have this discussion now, John?"

John's face tells Sherlock his answer. With an exasperated sigh, he rolls off the doctor once more and onto his side. After a moment, he flops over onto his stomach and cradles his dark head on one bent arm.

John continues to stare up at the ceiling.

"You cannot ask me to continue if you – die – John Watson."

"Sherlock, is that what you expect  _me_  to do? If the unthinkable occurs? Take my life?"

John rolls over on his side in order to meet Sherlock's gaze. His free hand picks at the soft cotton sheet under his fingers.

The detective purses his lips as he considers his answer.

"No, John. If I were to die, I would expect you to move on."

Sherlock turns his head to look into the doctor's grim face. "After an appropriate grieving period, of course." He tries to grin at his soldier, but fails miserably.

John's face remains stony.

" _Only no men, John, please. Not another man. Ever. I couldn't bear it to know you were ever with another man. Even though, of course, I would be unaware of the fact. Just - No.  John."_

John looks into the grey gaze and his eyebrows pull together.

"So, this is a big joke with you, is it? You expect me to walk around now with this knowledge in my head, as if what we do isn't dangerous enough. Now I have to carry this – _this_ – around. The way I carry the gun and – "

The detective looks into the dark blue eyes, then begins to speak, his words measured, deliberate. He begins to quote John's letter back at him in a silken drawl.

" _But when the day comes that Sherlock does, in fact, ask me to leave, I will do so unhesitatingly. It won't matter because I will be dead soon after anyway."_

"You bastard."

Thoroughly agitated, John gets out of bed. Sherlock turns his head to watch as the doctor, nude, paces up and down the small space.

"You were never meant to read that. And bloody Mycroft wasn't meant to see it until I was dead."

Sherlock sits up and leans back against the headboard. He regards John thoughtfully.

"That doesn't make it any less true, John. The implications of your words were obvious."

John paces back and forth across the floor, which action occupies just a few seconds as most of the available space is now taken up by two beds. He turns to regard the detective.

"Damn it all to hell, Sherlock, we weren't even  _us_ yet. And when I wrote that bloody letter, I despaired of us ever being together. I tried to tell you how I felt but you never said a damn word."

"John – "

"And to bloody well top it off, I was drunk – damned drunk!"

"Yes, I note that a certain amount of the right type of alcohol does seem to inhibit your otherwise – "

"For fucks sake! Speak English!"

Sherlock sighs. He swings his legs over the side of the bed to stand and not for the first time and definitely not the last, John glances over the leanly muscled legs, the slim torso, trim waist and pale marble skin with its sparse coating of black silk curls over the chest and stomach, curls which increase in number and thickness as the dark arrow points downward to Sherlock's groin.

Even angry, John can't stop himself from thinking how utterly lovely the man is, sheer perfection, clothed or nude.

Which makes absolutely no difference to the matter at hand.

John bends to snag his boxers off the floor, yanks them on, then leaves their room, banging the door against the wall as he goes.

Sherlock watches him go, then sweeps one hand through his curls and glances around their bedroom.

John sits in his chair and stares ahead of him. His hands are clasped loosely on the chair arms. Frankly, he's exhausted. The emotional turmoil in the flat can be cut with a knife and served up on a plate.

Sherlock stands in the door of their bedroom, then silently pads into the living area and the next thing John knows, the detective stands in front of him.

John looks slowly upward at Sherlock. He can't think, beyond the fact that he notes the other man is dressed only in the blue robe.

Sherlock looks down at John; his crystalline eyes reflect inner pain. Then with one shrug of the pale shoulders, the robe falls to the floor to puddle around his feet. And suddenly John's lap is full of one naked, shivering and very determined consulting detective, who straddles his thighs. His long arms hold onto the back of John's chair, his thighs grip John's and his soft lips bend to kiss John's mouth.

John can feel the faint stubble against his lips and groans softly in return.

He shuts his eyes, leans back slightly and lets Sherlock kiss him. He doesn't kiss back. But he doesn't withdraw either. After a moment, Sherlock opens his eyes and looks into John's ocean blue gaze.

Not for the first time, John wonders how his crazy flatmate is able to bend his lanky body like a pretzel and literally fold himself around John. In another minute, he realizes he doesn't care.

He begins to kiss Sherlock back. Slowly, tentatively. After a while, both men begin to move slowly against each other. Their movements become more desperate and their hands – their hands …

"John –" Sherlock groans. "I want you closer, John."

"That would be doable, except something appears to be poking me in the stomach."

Sherlock grins the grin of the blindingly cracked. "I can think of better places to poke you, John."

John puts both his hands against the other man's chest and pushes gently until Sherlock leans back slightly and their eyes meet.

"Don't think you're getting off easy this time," John whispers back. His hands move lower, down from the cool chest with its silken curls to grip the other man's bare thighs. His thumbs dig into the strong muscles, while his fingers caress the cool skin.

"Well, if by getting off, you are referring to –"

"For fucks sake!" John grips the lanky body and pulls it to him.

**OooOooO**

**Several Hours Earlier -**

Two agents meet Deborah's car at the usual public venue, but by that time, her rather determined shadow has disappeared. Anthea debriefs her assistant, then sends Deborah home for the evening, while she makes a quick phone call to Mrs. Holmes to explain the circumstances.

Happy to be off the leash, at least for one night, Deborah makes her report, then gratefully accepts Williams and Roaman's offer to accompany her home. No one follows them.

Once Deborah is safely on her way, Anthea again examines the photographs that Deborah texted over, simply labeled as "Shoes." She sends them to her computer, then enlarges and prints the clearer one. She notes the taxi plate, jots down the number, and makes a phone call.

Later that night, Robin Macon finishes his shift and drives himself home. He's exhausted and a bit apprehensive. It's not everyday that a cabbie actually hears the words, "Follow that car." But he did his best, thinking it was all very exciting at the time. Although now, he could do without this particular brand of excitement.

The 34-year old cab driver who was driving the cab which followed Deborah over half the day, finds himself the unwitting recipient of a rather late night visit from two quiet, seemingly respectful government officials, both of whom invade Macon's small flat and seat themselves in his kitchen. He glances at their government-issued badges, nods, not certain at all of what he is looking at, and the fake ID's vanish back into trouser pockets.

One of the men busies himself at the stove. The other, a shorter man with red-gold hair, urges Macon to sit, which he does, then takes out a small recorder and after pushing a button, politely asks the cabbie to go over his day, "Beginning with a complete physical description of the fare you picked up near Whitehall and describing every single stop the cab made and while you're at it, Mr. Macon, please be kind enough to repeat every word this particular fare said during his rather lengthy ride in your cab and what, exactly, he asked you to do."

The man looks at Macon quizzically and adds, "If you would be so kind, sir."

Robin Macon stares into the steady gaze of Don Williams and swallows. Behind him, Terry Roaman turns from Macon's small stove with the tea kettle, fills three mugs, then returns the kettle to the stove and seats himself. He pushes milk and sugar across to Macon and picks up a spoon to stir his own tea.

Macon begins to stammer out his story. From time to time, he pauses and wipes his forehead with his by now damp paper napkin.

Roaman and Williams smile at Macon. "I think you can do a lot better than that, Mr. Macon," Don says quietly. He picks up his mug and smiles at the terrified cab driver over the steaming cup of Twining's.

"Shall we begin again?"

Macon groans and runs a slightly shaking hand through his thinning hair.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street –**

**1:30 am**

"That," John says, taking deep breathes to slow his pulse rate, "was amazing."

Sherlock smiles, the slightest upturns of the soft lips. "Amazing," he repeats.

John's hands tighten in the cool sheets. "Extraordinary, quite extraordinary," he laughs.

"Hmmm, we've had enough practice."

"Have we?" John muses. His fingers trace the musculature of the lean back under his hands.

"Well, I say practice," Sherlock muses.

"It wasn't an exercise in subtlety, Sherlock."

"Hmm?"

"The mention of the riding crop, the wink, for fucks sake, we had just met!"

The detective grins and rolls over. He lies on his stomach again and cradles his head on both hands the better to observe John.

"So?"

John laughs. "So? Sherlock – you didn't know a thing about –"

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow. John sighs and relents. He turns on his side to match the other man and they look at each other, their faces a scant few inches away, their warm breath co-mingling.

"Okay, you knew shite all about me less than sixty seconds after I came into the lab at Bart's."

John watches as the miraculous lips curve upwards in the faintest smile. "To be more precise, John, I didn't know "shite all about you" until you'd been in the room a full minute. And then it was – and remains – just surface knowledge."

"When I handed you my phone," John says quietly. He reaches out with his left hand and runs his fingers through the dark curls that tumble over the forehead.

Sherlock shuts his eyes at John's touch.

"What if I hadn't?" John says quietly.

"Hadn't what?"

"Offered you my phone," John's fingers sift through the dark hair, tug slightly, then let the curls fall. His hand lingers over the planes of Sherlock's cheek, tracing the curve of cheek, chin, throat.

"Immaterial, John, as you did make the offer. The rest, as they say, is history."

"History," John repeats. He drops his hand and looks at the other man with affection.

"But what if I hadn't. What do you think would have –"

"Don't be disgusting, John." The detective shudders slightly and his left hand clenches where his curly head rests on it.

"So, our relationship – this – _us_  – was a foregone conclusion," John near whispers. His chest rises and falls slowly as he breathes.

"No, John. That would presuppose you believe in the unlikely idea of soul mates or inevitable pairings. But why belabor the point? It occurred, and as I said before –"

"History," John says, quietly amused.

"Yes, John. History." Sherlock closes his eyes for a moment.

"Idiot," John whispers.

The detective opens his eyes and his grayish-green eyes look into John's dark blue ones. They smile at each other.

He lifts his right hand and one long finger slowly traces the scarring on John's shoulder. The military man doesn't move or flinch from the cool contact. Rather, he lies there as Sherlock traces the scarring, the nearly white paths of fibrous tissue, which branch out and circle from the initial entry wound.

" _Ley lines,"_ he muses. _"John's body is mapped out in ley lines."_

Not for the first time, the detective wonders when the abscess from the resultant infection ruptured, how soon it occurred after the initial injury, and who took care of John at that time. He wonders how many months total John spent in pain from this horrid wound. And who cared for the soldier then? Anyone? No. By that time, John was back in England and on his own. He discounts John getting any sort of help from Harriet Watson.

He keeps himself from twisting his head to look downward along John's lean body, toward the two scars on his thigh, one of them overlapping the other. The one incurred in Afghanistan, in battle, and the newer one, overlapping the first, which occurred when Sebastian Moran shot John in the clinic – the day John was taken.

Also incurred in battle.

He shuts his eyes and shudders.

"Sherlock?" John's voice is low. He raises his hand again and pokes at his love's chin.

"Hey. What is it?"

The crystalline eyes open again and John can see the slight humor there. "Nothing. Just –"

"History?" John whispers.

"Yes, history."

"All right then." John continues to stroke Sherlock's face, across the chin, down the throat, upward to the right ear.

"It doesn't hurt anymore, you know," he says. "Well, nearly."

"Shoulder or thigh?" Sherlock's right hand grasps John's left and pulls the doctor's fingers to his lips. He nibbles on one finger, then kisses each fingertip and goes on to the next.

John smiles. "Shoulder. Hurts when the weather turns or we've been particularly active, when I've had to fight someone, that sort of thing. One day it will become a problem. But not now."

"And thigh?" Sherlock releases the doctor's fingers, then turns the palm over and begins to gently trace out John's lifeline with one cool fingertip.

"A bit," John says. His breathing becomes labored and he stares at the soft, full lips as they kiss, then release his palm. "Sometimes."

"I don't want you to be in pain, John. Not from the gunshot wounds and not from Frank's drug."

"It's been over 24 hours, Sherlock. Haven't had any tremors. No pain. I think it's over and done with."

Sherlock releases John's hand, then props his head up on his left arm. "Certain?"

"No, but let's give it another 24 hours and if nothing happens, then I think we can safely say it's over," John says. "As for the other –"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

John goes on determinedly. "As for the other, you can't keep me from injury or pain, Sherlock. It happens. And I have to deal with it." His hand, now released, reaches out to cup the detective's face.

Sherlock leans into John's warm embrace.

"John, about this weekend," he begins.

John smiles. "Yes. About this weekend ... you okay with this wedding planning stuff?"

Sherlock's eyes widen and he looks into the dark blue eyes. "No. I'm not going to lie to you, John. I'm not  _okay_  with it. The wedding plans? My mother has someone handling all of that. But this weekend, driving to the manor and staying, no, John, I'm not okay with it."

"Because your Mum will be there," John says, his gaze sympathetic.

Sherlock catches John's wrist in his hand and tugs the doctor closer to him. John goes willingly.

"As you say. And Mycroft. And the man I intend to marry. The household staff. Everyone will be there, John. And I wish it were just the two of us."

John settles against the lean chest and shuts his eyes, the better to feel what Sherlock's right hand is doing along his bare thigh. His own hand roams over the other man's flat stomach. Then it goes lower and his fingers twine in the soft, dark curls of pubic hair. Then back up again to the flat stomach muscles.

"Then don't go. Tell them to handle all of it, send us the details. We've already got an appointment for fittings this morning, and later, your appointment with Cordoa. Tell them to fuck off."

"Not that easy, John." Sherlock continues to stroke along the bare muscled leg next to him.

"Fuck it, then. We'll show up. And it will all be fine."

Sherlock grimaces but says nothing. He watches as his fingers raise small goose bumps along John's muscled thigh.

John watches him.

"Sherlock – a few days ago, we were talking. You were going to tell me something. And somehow we got derailed," John's right hand strokes casually back and forth over the flat stomach.

"The day of Rob Enders' funeral, John."

John nods slowly. His hand continues to rub across his love's bare abdomen. He feels the lean muscles contract under his touch. And smiles.

"Do you have anything to tell me, Sherlock, now that we have time? And It's quiet?"

And by "It's quiet" John does not mean the night. Or the flat. Or life. Or the lack of immediate cases. He does not mean London. Their city is never quiet. Slumbering, perhaps. The city bides it's time, but it is never truly quiet.

He means Sherlock's mind. Quiet. Calm. Flowing in an orderly manner.

Sherlock, who knows exactly what John means by "quiet," rubs his palm along John's leg, considering.

Things are calm. The edge is off and Sherlock can breathe. He's with John. Together in their bed. And once again, he can breathe.

Abruptly, Sherlock props himself up on pillows and tugs until John sits up and leans against him.

John's soft hair tickles Sherlock's neck and scapula and he loves it and wouldn't move for the world. He takes a bit of John's weight against his chest because he needs it on these types of nights. He needs to feel his Army doctor not only next to him but right up against him, on top or just a bit on top, as he is now. So he can have the actuality of it now and the sense memories for later – for when John isn't there.

And by "isn't there" he simply means the days that John is out being a doctor again. Because, Sherlock thinks, that will happen and quite soon. And nothing else. Just … the days that John is out being a doctor. Or perhaps out with Stamford or out with the Yarders for a drink.

Because he can't bear to think…his mind won't go there to even allow him to consider that, one day….

No.

Although they both lead dangerous lives and at any moment, anything might happen -

NO.

He and John have lived through Hell and they have - well, if they haven't found their way out the other side yet, they are so close that it makes no difference. They deserve this. They deserve to be here with each other.

Sherlock ignores the clock ticking away the minutes on the small table. Nights like these are to be treasured, counted up and hoarded in his memory forever.

On nights like this, he will give this man anything and everything that is within his power to give. And now that they are past the truly painful questions, he is curious to hear which question John will ask next.

So when John finally asks the question – one of the forty-two questions that Sherlock has expected since they became a couple – Sherlock is ready with the answer. And he thinks how odd that the answer is something that might have hurt him to give John months back but now it's just an interesting fact, some bit of Sherlock that John needs and wants to know. And God knows Sherlock has asked John enough questions. And will continue to do so.

So now it's John's turn. John has gaps. And he wants to fill the gaps. So he lies here, his bright head against Sherlock's pale chest and neck, and he asks one of the forty-two questions.

John has no way of knowing there are forty-two, of course, because Sherlock has never told him that there are. It's not a very sane thing to tell someone, but he hasn't told John because of that reason alone. There are other reasons he hasn't told John. John, of course, has no way of knowing he will ever ask any more questions at all, not of this nature. But of course, he will, Sherlock knows. And after he asks this one, there will be forty-one left.

"What was it like?"

John's right hand, warm, idle, rubs lazily back and forth across Sherlock's chest. He can feel the tiny bit of gooseflesh this movement causes but Sherlock says nothing, so he continues to do it.

"Which – Cocaine or Heroin?"

Sherlock bends slightly to plant a kiss in John's hair, just over his right ear. He does not even pretend to misunderstand. He does not ask John "what was  _what_ like?"

He knows immediately what John is asking.

The long fingers of his right hand rub gently over and around the scar…mapping it out with sensitive musician's fingers, tracing the ley lines of John Watson's body, over and over.

John shifts marginally and his voice drops, just a bit. "Cocaine. What was it like?"

Sherlock notes he doesn't ask the most important question first, the question that Sherlock has numbered Important Question Number One of the List of Things that John Watson wishes to ask Sherlock Holmes about the Insane Years.

How like John to skip Question Number One and go straight to Question Number Four. He will never totally understand John Watson.

Sherlock thinks of this as a good thing. But he answers, because John is waiting.

"Cocaine. Bright. Blaring. Noisy."

"Noisy."

"Yes, but not in the way you mean noisy when you say it. Not as if there are too many sounds in the flat at one time, perhaps the telly going and Mrs. Hudson playing her radio and you talking over your mobile to Harry and traffic noise coming from the street, just too much at once. Not that type of noisy."

"Okay."

"Bright like the sun is bright. Brilliant white, not yellow. And it wasn't warm. Or comforting. Quite the opposite. Blaring, like a clarion call. As if I'd been called by someone to go somewhere and do something and do it brilliantly. So of course I went."

John says nothing. He just listens and nods encouragingly.

"But even as I tried to focus on my studies or a crime scene, depending on which year you are asking about, other things would crowd in, clamor for my attention. All of them at once. I suspect what I was really hearing were neurons. Screaming for attention, shouting for me to sit up and recognize that my brain was firing – or misfiring – at a million kilometers per second and there was absolutely nothing I could or would want to do to make it stop."

John's right hand stops stroking Sherlock's belly. He lets his hand go still and the warmth from his palm imparts itself to the pale skin underneath.

Sherlock can feel that John's entire body has gone still, except for his breathing, and even that has slowed somewhat.

John is thinking. His slightly calloused hand moves up and down, gently, feeling the slight hairs that stand up and beg, no fucking scream for the good doctor's attention.

"It's okay, John. Whatever you want to ask."

John stops stroking the thigh muscles, which are quivering now under his touch, and there are other things quivering as well, but he ignores them, for the moment.

Sherlock knows he is thinking. When John thinks about something truly important, he puts all his energy behind it, his entire body gets into the act. He becomes quiet still. So what comes out of his mouth will be exactly what he meant to say.

"When you said earlier tonight that you traded sex for drugs… Okay, that nightmare is behind us, so let that one go. Forget the cocaine and the heroin and forget all that. And I'm sorry I even brought it up. Just –"

"John, you can always ask me. And I will answer what I can, except for –"

"Except?"

Sherlock stops talking then. Finally. At last.

John shifts a bit and turns his head toward Sherlock, although at this angle, he cannot quite see the pale eyes.

"Sherlock, there is no pact here, that says you have to tell me every little thing that has happened to you before we met, before us. I expect you to have things that you want to keep to yourself. That's just normal and human."

Sherlock, who knows John is his touchstone when it comes to 'things normal and human,' thinks about this for a moment.

"John, if you meant what you just said, then why did you not ask me instead of going to Mycroft? I cannot promise that I would have answered you. I might have wanted to keep that – episode – to myself, as you just intimated."

John looks at Sherlock. "Sherlock, when the man I am in love with has a high fever and in his subsequent delirium, talks about being sent away unless he can keep his thoughts orderly, precise, I go a bit ballistic, as my American comrades would say. In retrospect, No. I'm not even going to go there. I would still go to Mycroft. And as I said, I intend to have this conversation with Regina, as well."

Sherlock stares upward at the ceiling. For once, he is at a near loss for words. John holds his breath for a bit.

"John, what purpose would it serve to ask my mother about an incident that occurred when I was 15 years old? It will not change things. I was taken away from my home and remanded to a facility until I was deemed able to –"

"Sherlock, hush. Just. Don't go there, all right?"

"Then what question would you ask of me, John?"

John's hand keeps stroking over his love's bare thigh.

"Here's the thing: Sherlock, what comes to your mind when we have sex?"

Sherlock frowns. This is not Question Number Five or even in the Top Ten. In fact, his mind races over the list.

Fuck. This question is not even one of the forty-two, well, forty-one.

He will have to rethink his parameters. This takes 2.2 seconds and he nods marginally to himself. Okay then. Right. There are still forty-two questions. And after this one…

He stops stroking through John's hair and does not kiss John again, because this is one of the  _important questions,_  Sherlock knows instinctively, one of the questions that hover over The Pit. And if he answers wrong, the pit opens and he falls in, mouth-first. If that were possible.

"John, I – it's sex. It's wonderful. It's….all encompassing."

John sighs and his right hand begins to stroke and kneed the muscles along Sherlock's bare left leg.

"Sherlock, is what we do 'shagging' to you?"

 _There are other things the doctor could be stroking and kneading_ , Sherlock thinks.  _"In fact, if I shift to the left, just a bit."_

He proceeds to do so but John budges over slightly, as if he thinks the detective just needs a bit more room. They rearrange themselves, marginally, and everything is as it was just ten seconds earlier. To Sherlock's utter frustration.

Damn it.

Sherlock frowns, but sometimes there is only one answer.

"Shagging? Yes. Most of the time."

He adds the qualifier, despising his inaccuracy as he does so. This is one of  _those_ questions.

_Did he get it wrong? And what has any of this to do with his drug years? Oh, are we past that? Excellent. I can breathe again._

"Listen to me, Love. Okay?"

Sherlock nods against John's head so he can feel it.

"When we were first together, that first time, and nearly every time after that, up until three months ago, it was shagging to me. Fucking. Glorious. Wonderful. As you say, all encompassing."

John shifts and rolls slightly toward Sherlock and Sherlock drops his left arm so John can do so and suddenly they are both, nearly, eye to eye.

"It stopped being fucking two months before the day I was taken. Do you know why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's glaucous eyes widen and he looks slightly down into John's dark blue eyes. He shakes his head, just a bit. But makes no other movement or sound.

"Okay. Follow this. It stopped being, just sex, shagging, whatever you want to call it, one night in particular, approximately four months ago, because of something you said."

Sherlock frowns, his memory racing. His remarkable eidetic memory pulls up the day John was taken. He mentally shudders. He works his way back. The night before, they were together. The night before that and weeks before that. He races backward.

"A little help here, John."

"Sherlock, it's nothing you'll remember. Only something I will remember, always."

John rolls over slowly, until his detective finally scoots down in the bed and lies on his back. John's body is now on top of Sherlock's, stretched out along his full length. He lifts himself slightly on his hands so he can look directly into the pale eyes.

"It wasn't anything spectacular. There weren't fireworks. At least not for anyone but me, Sherlock. You corrected me over something I said."

The detective stares into the dark blue eyes.

"I – John?"

John nods. "Yes, Sherlock. We were about to 'go at it." Were moments away, in fact, right here in this bed. And I said, "You're such a lanky git, it's a good thing we're in your bed, as it's larger."

Sherlock continues to look into John's dark eyes. He raises one eyebrow.

John's voice is soft, his gaze slightly unfocused.

" _Remembering,"_  thinks Sherlock. " _John's eyes do this when he remembers something important."_

"You said, 'Our bed, John. It's a good thing we are in _our_  bed.'"

John shakes his head slightly, and his eyes focus again.

" _Our bed_. And it stopped being just shagging for me, from that point on, Sherlock."

John smiles into the pale eyes. "I fell that day, Sherlock. And I think I'm still falling."

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly as he looks into John's ocean gaze. His hands roam up and down John's shoulders and back, rubbing slow concentric circles over the warm flesh. His mind races.

And then - John smiles.

Time stands still for Sherlock. It's the barest of moments, 0.0001 of a second…a mere hiccup in the cosmic march that he doubts John even notices. But the moment seems to stretch forward into eternity for Sherlock Holmes.

John laughs.

Time becomes linear again.

And at this exact second in time, Sherlock henceforth stops thinking of it as "shagging," and begins to think of it as "making love."

Until this moment of clarity, right here and right now, he thought he knew what people meant when they employed the near meaningless term. How could the phrase have any viability if the entire world uses it to label physical activities engaged in whenever the opportunity for frantic sexual coupling presents itself?

But listening to John laugh, lying propped up on one elbow and watching as the familiar, open and loved face crinkles up with that huge grin and not with pain, or anguish or confusion (mental or emotional) – Sherlock's heart nudges him, just a bit.

And understanding blooms. He grins his blinding grin at his lover. John Watson, conductor of light.

"Is that what we do, John?  _Make_  love?"

John turns over to face him, props himself up on both elbows, and now their faces are so close together, that Sherlock can see the tiny bits of green in John's dark eyes, only visible in certain light.

"What do you think, Sherlock?" His soldier asks him softly.

Sherlock looks into the dark blue flecked with green eyes, and not for the first time, feels his heart tumble.

"I think … more research is indicated," he murmurs in the velvet baritone. He bends forward to kiss his soldier senseless.

John smiles softly against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock pulls back and runs a white hand through John's shining hair. And God, he loves this man, his soldier, his Army doctor.

He takes John's face in his hands and begins to kiss John passionately as his doctor hums against his lips.

"All right then. More field research… coming right up," John says gently.

**OooOooO**

John wakens to the sound of violin music.

He lies in their bed and listens as the piece plays out – nearly.

He even recognizes it. One of his favorites.

The piece stops. Starts again. Stops.

John throws off the covers and stands, nude except for boxers, and stands in the quiet coolness of their room. The room that witnessed their angry words first, followed by their love making.

He glances at the window. The lightning has long since stopped and so has the rain.

What remains is cool air in a cool night.

He paces once, twice, then makes up his mind, and snags his tee from the end of the bed. He pulls it on over his chest, freeing up the dog tag so it hangs on top of the dark tee.

Barefoot, he pads out of their room, and into their living area. He stands there, tries to be as quiet as possible, and observes.

Sherlock's back is to John. He wears only the silk pants and the blue robe. The robe hangs open, its belt hangs to each side of the detective's tall lean body. He turns ever so slightly and John sees that Sherlock's eyes are shut. He raises the violin that was John's gift to him to his shoulder, takes a breath and starts again. The bow moves across the strings in a slow slide of notes. Then faster.

Vivaldi.  _Four Seasons_.

John is aware that different violins often sound  _differently_. A talented musician can play the same piece on three instruments of unique manufacture and there will be subtle differences each time. Usually, he considers that his 'ear' is not practiced enough to catch these differences.

Up until now, that is. He supposes that the substitution of this violin for one of the most finely crafted instruments in the world is to blame. The wood used, a combination of maples and spruces, tempered by cold, by heat, by a growing season exceptionally long or too short, by the talent of the luthier, all combines to create the varying intonations. The short of it is, different violins sound  _different_ , subtle differences that only a musician of Sherlock's caliber can hear.

But apparently this has nothing to do with John's gift and everything to do with the musician. Sherlock paces a few feet, eyes closed, and plays. And stops at the same exact spot.

He sighs, opens his eyes and looks directly into John's dark blue gaze.

Sherlock turns abruptly and lays the violin on the sofa and the bow next to it. He straightens, his back to John, and deliberately gathers up the tie to his robe, crosses the edges over each other and then ties the robe.

"It's not the violin, John. Your gift is more than acceptable, as I told you."

John says nothing. He crosses to stand in back of Sherlock and waits for the other man to turn.

"Sherlock," he says quietly.

The detective stands, his back to John, his arms hang at his sides.

John moves to stand in front of Sherlock and without asking permission he lifts both of Sherlock's hands in his. He gently pushes up the robe sleeves and turns both hands in his grasp, examines the healed wounds around both wrists. Nothing remains of the puncture wounds but a row of red marks. He turns the wrists gently, then raises his eyes to look into the other man's eyes.

"I would know if you were still experiencing pain. You would have mentioned it," he says quietly. All the while he watches Sherlock's face.

The taller man looks into John's eyes. "I'm fine, John. Don't be ridiculous. I've managed to carry on with all of our activities, or perhaps you haven't noticed."

He pulls his hands gently out of John's grasp and crosses to sit in his chair. John watches him for a moment, then glances at the violin. He takes a breath and moves in front of Sherlock. John looks down at Sherlock, who steeples his hands under his chin.

John shakes his head and drops to his knees. He takes each wrist again in his grasp and turns them again, first one way, then the other. He watches Sherlock's face.

"Any pain?"

"No, John. I tried to tell you –"

"Yes, I know."

John lets go of Sherlock's left wrist and holds onto the right. Gently, he presses his palm to Sherlock's' and lifts their hands between them. He pushes back against Sherlock's fingers. The detective looks into John's eyes, then gently pushes back against John's determined fingers.

John nods. He lowers the right hand and then lifts the left. And does the same thing. Sherlock pushes back against John's fingers.

"All right," John says. "You've had full motion in your wrists and fingers all along. But I should have had you to someone faster. Two weeks back in fact."

"We were a bit busy at the time, John, if you will recall," Sherlock says softly. His grey-green eyes never leave John's dark blue ones. "You weren't  _quite_  yourself."

"We should have gone immediately –"

"Please John, Cordoa was my first choice, as well. Tomorrow, today rather, was his first available appointment and besides, he was the one who insisted I wait until the wounds had fully healed."

"Which they have," John says. He sits back on his heels and stares upward into the pale eyes.

"Then what is it?" he asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Obvious lack of practice, that's all." He stares into John's eyes, then leans forward, his hands clasped in front of him.

"That's all, John. I haven't been practicing. I will remedy the situation immediately."

John places both his warm hands over Sherlock's long fingers and holds them clasped between his palms. "Do you have full feeling in all of your –"

"Oh good grief, John! We've been over and over this. Yes. I have full feeling in all my fingers. See?" He waggles his fingers, turns his wrists, finally bends and places his hands on each side of John's face.

"Full range of motion, John. And there's nothing wrong with the violin. The instrument is rather amazing, I must say. One of the Cremonas."

John frowns. "Amazing? I thought it was just a, I don't know, perhaps a student's practice violin?"

Sherlock drops his left hand but continues to cup John's face with his right. The soldier takes a breath, and shuts his eyes momentarily. He leans into Sherlock's palm.

He opens his eyes as Sherlock bends forward. His soft lips open and he kisses John on the mouth, gently.

"Idiot," he whispers. "Time for bed. Again."

John smiles. "All right. But there's something you're not saying."

Sherlock sighs, drops his hand and moves to stand. John comes to his feet and the two men stand in front of each other.

Sherlock crosses to the sofa, his hand brushing against John's leg as he walks. He lifts the violin and bow and places them in the case. He bends to clasp the case shut, then straightens with the case and crosses to place it in the corner where the Strad lived. He then picks up the empty box the case was packed in, preparatory to placing it in the hallway, but straightens with a small manila-colored card in his hand, an odd look on his face.

Sherlock glances at the card in his hand, then turns it over.

"John, where did you get the violin?"

"A small shop in –" then he sees the detective's face. "What? What is it? Is something wrong with it? Fuck, I was worried that it wasn't going to work for you."

The dark curls shake vigorously.

"No, John. The violin is fine. It's perfect."

He holds up the card, the same folded card John had glanced at a few days earlier, then tossed back in the packing box and ignored.

"This card came with the instrument?" He holds it out to John.

John takes the card and glances at it. The name and address of the small shop is printed on one side.

"Yes, this was in the case with it." He hands the card back to the other man. "Why? I didn't notice anything."

Sherlock's eyes have gone a pale icy blue. His face is grim. He turns the card over. And hands it to John again.

"Rule of thumb. Always read the other side, John."

John frowns at his love's frosty gaze, takes the card again and reads what is typed on the other side. Then looks up at Sherlock.

"From the Estate of "VMH?" He hands the card back to the detective. "I read that. I assumed it was to prove the violin's, what do you call it? Provenance?"

Sherlock takes the card from John's hand and holds it up to the light, as if examining it for fingerprints – or bloodstains. A small line appears between his eyes.

"Who's 'VMH, Sherlock? And why does it matter?"

Sherlock shakes his head and lowers the card, holding it between two finger tips. His lips purse as if he's delivering news of a particularly obnoxious nature.

He looks up to regard his Army doctor, his voice nearly as cold as his eyes.

"VMH were the initials of my fraternal grandfather's brother, my great uncle on our father's side. Mycroft is named for him."

"Your great uncle?" John stares at the detective. And at the buff-colored card in his fingers. He turns his head to look at the violin, propped up in its case.

"But – but how is that even possible, Sherlock? Can't the initials be – I don't know, just a coincidence?"

Sherlock shakes his head and walks to the mantel. He runs one fingertip along the heavy card's deckled edge. Then meets John's eyes in the mirror over the mantel.

"I haven't a clue, John. About the violin, my great uncle's estate in France or about this violin's provenance, as you put it. As you say, perhaps just a coincidence."

Sherlock carefully props the card up on its end, right next to the skull.

He turns and crosses to John. "Come on, big day ahead and we've had precious little sleep."

John tries to smile, but Sherlock's look is worrying. He goes along with the tone, however. "Hey, lack of sleep? Don't shoot me. I'm just the piano player."

He spreads his hands, then takes one of the other man's hands in his.

"Come on, then. We can still get a few hours in."

As they make their way back to the bedroom, Sherlock murmurs, "John, I have mentioned your exceedingly obscure cultural references before, correct?"

John just laughs.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street - 4:00 am.**

The two men sleep, for a while.

And sometime during the early morning hours, Sherlock wakes. Without disturbing John, he pads quietly into their living area, where he retrieves the envelope that Mycroft left for him a few days earlier. He stands and holds the envelope in his hand, turning it over and over. While there, he glances again at the small buff-colored card with the enigmatic initials he placed next to the skull.

Finally, he goes back to their bedroom, sets the envelope up on the bureau where John will be certain to see it in the morning, and gets back into bed.

John sleeps straight through.

Sherlock remains awake. His pale eyes stare into the darkness.

**OooOooO**

John's letter can be read in its entirety in Ch. 3 of THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON.

'sky'


	9. Chapter 9

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 9**

**Kyriotites**

**"And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown Against him, die, and find death good"**

**D.H. Lawrence**

**OooOooO**

**PROMISES: Two men in love. One aggravating brother-in-law. Mention of death. Army doctor outshining the sun. Angst – the beginnings of.**

**Mystery. Undeserved Pain.**

**And - God help us – bespoke tailoring.**

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street –** **7:00 am**

John stands in their kitchen, barefoot, and reads the two-page document, then reads it again. A single line stands out in a paragraph and his brow furrows.

He looks up at Sherlock, who is perched on his stool in front of his microscope. The detective wears the blue robe and dark silk pants. And nothing else.

"Patient Consent for Blood Transfusion?"

"Obvious, John. You were bleeding internally. You required blood. They refused to let me donate to you, despite the fact that we are not only life partners, but of the same blood type. This refusal had to do with my previous drug use. And for other reasons."

John glances at Sherlock, who doesn't look up from the eyepiece of his microscope. The crystalline eyes actually glow in the faint light from the scope.

"Sherlock, the Donor Health Check itself would preclude both of us from donating blood, now that we're a same-sex male couple in an ongoing sexual relationship."

Sherlock's fingers tighten as he adjusts one of the knobs a fraction. John wonders what is on the slide. A second later, he realizes he truly doesn't want to know. Truly.

"Also obvious, John. However, we can donate to each other."

John looks from the detective's profile back down to the sheets in his hand. He frowns as the import of what the other man's words sinks in.

"What have you done? Or rather, what has Mycroft done?"

He watches as the miraculous lips curl in a faint sneer.

"My brother was helpful in this instance, John, although you must know it is aggravating in the extreme to admit it."

Sherlock sighs and looks up from the eyepiece. "The day we returned from the mansion, John, I began the process of being retested. I have been declared 'clean' by all standards of the NHS. However, for the reason you just noted, both you and I remain locked out of the donor database." He glances up at John. "And in your instance, John, your recent forced drug use would also preclude you from donating."

"And Mycroft helped with that – how?"

Sherlock makes a miniscule notation on the pad next to him and deftly removes the slide, to set it on a clean paper napkin next to him. He then clicks the power button off and reaches for the cover.

"Let's just say that I have begun donating blood on your behalf, with the intention of building up a personal blood supply. Purely as a precaution. You have the particulars in that document, along with the form, if ever needed. My brother, the arse, also has all the details, should they be required."

John repeats his words. "A precaution."

The detective stares at his microscope. His voice, when it comes, is quiet, as if he speaks to himself and not to John.

"Homophobia is on the rise, John. There have been incidences where victims of violence did not receive timely medical assistance, including blood transfusions, due to their known sexual predilections. And now that we are 'alive' once more …" his voice trails off

"Yes, I read the news article, Sherlock."

The detective continues to stare ahead of him and won't meet John's gaze. "There are bound to be – repercussions – from Mycroft's subterfuge, John. Despite the fact it helped save our lives. You are, once more, a target because of your association with me."

John looks steadily at him. "Sherlock."

Sherlock shakes his head slightly.

Sherlock stands, stretches, then turns to John, somber mood dispelled. He bends to retrieve a mug of tea from the table. John notes that another mug, still steaming, sits on the table edge, alongside a plate of toast – honest-to-God toast – nicely buttered, with a small jar of jam and a spoon sitting next to it.

John smiles gently.

"You made breakfast."

Sherlock nods. "Yes. And I believe this time, John, you'll find the toast entirely palatable."

John returns his attention to the document in his hands. He glances through it for the third time with wonder. Then carefully folds it, slips it back into its envelope and slides it into the pocket of his ancient robe. He stands and thinks a moment, while Sherlock watches him.

John's dark blue eyes narrow.

"Sherlock, how could you possibly have donated blood without my noticing the signs?"

Sherlock nods in satisfaction, as if John has passed some sort of test.

"Please, John. Both of us were pretty beat up from the mansion. You were … not  _yourself._  We weren't intimate for several days. I doubted that you would be able to discern three more needle marks or a bit of extra bruising among the multiple cuts and bruises and the other obvious injection sites for pain medications. And you didn't. Although, under normal circumstances …"

John tilts his head to look at the detective, then nods. "All right. I'll give you that one. Still –" he fingers the envelope in his pocket. He considers the other man for a moment, then smiles. "It really bugged you that you couldn't give me blood, then?"

Sherlock moves in front of John and raises a pale hand to smooth a short comma of blonde silk from John's forehead. He bends slightly and plants a kiss on his soldier's forehead.

"You have no friggin' idea," he breathes into John's warm skin.

John nods. "All right then. But Sherlock, you didn't have to go through all this – don't have to continue to do so, in fact. But …" His fingers brush over the envelope in his robe pocket again and he shakes his head.

"But … thank you. Thanks, Sherlock. It's rather – amazing - of you."

The detective just nods. "It was maddening, John. Knowing that some other individual was helping save your life and that individual was not I."

John tilts his head up slightly and looks into his love's eyes, gone nearly cats-eye green this morning. He says with amusement, "Maddening?"

"Untenable," Sherlock's lips move over John's forehead again, then down to plant a small kiss on his love's nose, then lower still to nuzzle at the thin lips.

"Disgusting, if you must know," he whispers against John's mouth.

"It's just blood, Sherlock."

"But it wasn't mine, John."

"Hmm. All right then. Good to know. In case of, you know, homicidal Irish maniacs or eagle-eyed sharp shooters."

"Yes, I thought so," Sherlock whispers. His hands tighten in the dark plaid flannel and tug John to him. The doctor steps a bit closer. John shuts his eyes as the soft lips continue their downward path, past his lips, to his chin, then down the side of his neck.

He tilts his head to allow the detective better access. Sherlock begins to hum against John's skin.

"Sherlock?" John's breath comes in a throaty whisper.

"Hmm?" The taller man kisses his way along the slightly tan skin of John's collarbone, then back up to nibble on an earlobe.

"Sherlock?"

"Still right here, John."

John pulls back and looks at Sherlock with amusement. "We have a pretty full day ahead. I need my tea. And toast. And then I need to ask you a few questions. Particularly - "

"What is appropriate to wear to _Jonathan's_  this morning?"

"How in hell did you – Never mind." John shakes his head and reluctantly pulls loose from the detective's embrace. He snags his mug of tea and the plate of toast, then takes it over to his chair.

Sherlock sighs and watches him. "Ask away, John."

"Well, I assume it doesn't make any difference what I wear, right?"

Sherlock considers the doctor as his bright head bends over the cup of tea. For a moment, John's attention is on his tea and toast. An amused glint comes into the crystalline eyes.

He crosses to the music corner and retrieves his violin case, sets it upright next to the sofa, then crosses to their desk and yanks open the drawer. Sherlock removes a large envelope which contains his x-rays, tosses this onto the sofa next to the violin case, then finally brings his own tea to stand by John's chair.

He puts a serious expression on his face.

"Actually, John, I'm glad you asked me that."

"Actually, Sherlock, I didn't get to ask you that. You beat me to the punch."

"Idioms, John. But you are incorrect in this instance. It does matter what you wear. Never mind, I'll walk you through it."

John frowns and sets his tea down. "What? Sherlock, I know I've never been to an actual tailor before but what could possibly matter if I wear jeans or a suit and under that Army briefs or -" The dark blue eyes widen as he stares at the other man's cool gaze.

"No," he breathes. "Tell me that –"

"John, I highly recommend you 'go commando' I believe the phrase is, at least in this instance. And yes, the suit you wore to Agent Ender's funeral will more than suffice."

Sherlock drinks his own tea and watches the movement of John's throat as he swallows his tea.

"You arse. If you're just having me on over this…"

"Truth, John. Would I lie to you about something as important as this?"

John sets his nearly empty tea mug down on the table next to his chair and picks up the toast.

"You'd lie to me about your grandmother's eye color, Sherlock, if it would get you what you want."

The detective shakes his head and John watches an errant curl dance over the dark brows. "John Watson, you wound me."

He stands and crosses behind John's chair. His long fingers brush over his soldier's neck and shoulders. John shivers.

"Finish your toast. I'll be in the shower."

John considers for a moment, then tosses a question over his shoulder to the retreating figure.

"Sherlock, who did donate for me?"

The detective pauses outside the loo door. "Not entirely certain, John. Things were a bit muddled at the time. You must know there was a line of willing donors. Officer Rodriguez was there; I recall seeing him, before I was escorted out.

"Oh." John takes a bite of toast. Then shrugs.  _Well, if it was Joe, that would be all right_.  _Screw it, then._

Sherlock pokes his head around the corner of their loo. "Although, I do distinctly remember Anderson standing near the front of the line."

John coughs and begins to splutter. Choking, he snatches wildly at his tea mug, as the bathroom door slams behind Sherlock.

"Bloody arse," he mutters.

**OooOooO**

The taxi pulls up to the kerb outside  _Jonathan's_  and the two men emerge. John glances up at the rather modest lettering above the shop door - flowing script with only the first letter – a stylicized "J" - picked out in gold.

"Sherlock –"

Sherlock takes John by the elbow and steers him toward the door, currently being held open for them by an astonishingly beautiful young man in an impeccably tailored suit.

" _And beautiful is the only word to use_ ," John thinks.  _"Dear God, he looks like a very young Sherlock. All curls and teeth and eyes."_

"Try to relax, John. This is the initial visit, and by far the worst of it. Be prepared for a very  _thorough_  measurement session."

John groans and begins to pull his arm from Sherlock's long fingers. The taller man just tightens his grasp.

Sherlock nods to the young man, who murmurs, "Monsieur Holmes, bonjour. So good to see you again. C'est vraiment."

The young man's voice is liquid gold, a slide of sin in the bright English sun. His sloe eyes devour John whole. John's eyes widen.

As they enter the portals of what John is rapidly comparing to Hell on earth, his mad love bends and whispers in his ear. "Allow me to do all the talking, John.  _Jonathan's_  is, of course, French. And French is the only language spoken here, except at the door."

"You're having me on," John says. He turns his head in disbelief to stare at the detective, who still has an extremely firm hold on his arm.

Sherlock just smirks as he nods at the frankly appreciative stare of the young doorman and ushers John into the inner sanctum of bespoke tailoring. What John does not notice is that the stare is directed entirely toward his rather tight arse, nicely on display in the dark grey silk suit.

Sherlock notices. And tightens his grip on John's elbow.

The glass doors close behind them. Several very determined men descend upon them.

John takes one look around, and wishes he were facing the Taliban again.

**OooOooO**

"You arse."

"Really, John. Do you think that cursing is the appropriate response here?"

"You bloody, unmitigated _thorough_  arse!"

"John. Please. You're embarrassing me in front of our driver."

"Not possible, Sherlock Holmes. After this morning, I know, now and forever, that nothing under the sun embarrasses you. Nothing. I, on the other hand –"

"John, seriously. It was just a bit of –"

"Bit of what, Sherlock? Fun at the toy soldier's expense? I was the only man, Sherlock,  _ **the only man there,**_  who wasn't wearing pants."

"And I can assure you, John Watson, that every single tailor there, including the cutter  _and_ the doorman, appreciated that fact. I know that I did."

"You total complete Prat!"

John fumes in silence for a moment as their cab maneuvers through London traffic.

He crosses his arms over his chest and turns his body away from the other man who sits beside him in the cab.

"John, you were wearing pants when you arrived. It's only when -"

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock. I know when I removed them. They asked me to step in the back and I thought –"

"Well, it's obvious to every man there what you thought, John. Again, I believe you have left a lasting impression, one that will be commented on for some time to come."

"Go to hell, Sherlock."

The two men ride in silence for a while.

"You might have warned me, at least," John states. His voice is deadly calm now and Sherlock raises an eyebrow. John Watson being deadly calm is just that – deadly.

"About?"

"Their stupid questions, Sherlock. Their bloody,  _stupid_ questions. Particularly, that one about the left and right of my –"

"Aw. Yes. Well, when a tailor asks if you dress left or dress right, what he is really asking is –"

"I bloody well know – now – what he is asking, Sherlock!  _Now_ , I know. I'm just saying that a bit of forewarning would have been nice. Decent, even."

Sherlock's eyes widen and he turns to look at his soldier's stony profile.

"John, truly, I do apologise."

"No. No, no, no, NO! You aren't getting off so easy this time."

John takes a deep breath, another, then turns to regard the other man. "Jesus, Sherlock, they took a thousand ruddy measurements. They could fucking _clone_  me if need be."

"You exaggerate, John. Although – no, let it go. And I can assure you that the resulting formal morning coat, vest and trousers will be worth any agony and will, indeed, showcase your more than adequate physical attributes."

Their cab driver coughs discretely. Both men ignore him.

"My – attributes – are henceforth going to stay in their respective confines, Sherlock. Bloody hell! It was bad enough being escorted back there by that … that –"

"Virile, young, hedonistic, obviously homosexual, male?" Sherlock offers.

"Yeah. Glad you noticed. Great. Just fucking great."

Their driver coughs. Both men ignore him.

Sherlock considers the scenery for a moment, then shakes his curly head. "John, if you hadn't punched the head tailor …"

"I didn't punch him, Sherlock. Although God knows, I thought about it. I did forcibly remove his hands from bits of your anatomy, though. For fucks sake, they were all over you – you and your own 'more than adequate physical attributes.'"

Sherlock sighs and turns his head toward John. "He's a tailor, John. His hands were supposed to be all over me."

"Yeah? Well, in future they can just keep their grabby paws to themselves!"

"I doubt if it will be a problem, in future, John. There will, naturally, have to be at least one more session, for a final fitting."

Stony silence on John's part.

Then – "I will die and my bones will rot before I return there, Sherlock."

"Unnecessary, John, as we have been banned for life from  _Jonathan's._  Or until a suitable apology has been rendered. Pity, that. I have been frequenting their establishment for years. At any rate, they will, of course, complete Mummy's order. As for the final fitting - " Here the detective holds up a hand at the look of thunder on John's face.

"I have been assured said fitting will take place at Baker Street, if we so desire. Or at the estate. Anywhere but  _Jonathan's_. Usually there are two more fittings, but they're quite good. One should suffice."

John stares at his love and his eyes narrow. Then he turns his head and watches the scenery.

"And what was all that there at the end?"

"All what, John? Before or after you 'laid hands' on one of the most highly respected and internationally frequented bespoke tailors on the planet?"

"That …argument or what have you, outside the doors, as we were leaving? The entire thing was in French and too rapid for me to follow. But you seemed to be enjoying yourself."

John thinks he can actually hear the moment that Sherlock's brows pull together. He turns his head to watch the detective.

"That, John? That was a rather stringent assertion on my part, to the two young men in question, that you were – let us say –  _off_ the table?"

"Off the – For fucks sake! Don't tell me they were both asking me for a date!"

"I'm afraid that was it, John. The older of the lads understood my position but I'm afraid I had to make certain threats to the younger one. He was being a tad assertive. I found it tiresome."

John regards his love steadily. "Assertive? What exactly did you say to him, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turns his head toward the window and finds great interest in the passing traffic.

"I believe I told him I'd have his balls for breakfast, John, if he so much as looks at you in the future or attempts to contact you in any way or fashion. It seemed to have the desired effect."

Dead silence.

John considers Sherlock's words. Then nods. A slight smirk plays around the thin lips.

"Well, all right then."

The two men ride on in silence.

"Sherlock – when you told him you'd 'have his balls for breakfast' –"

Their cab driver coughs discretely.

"Oh, shut the fuck up!" John yells.

**OooOooO**

At Baker Street, John ignores the cab driver and Sherlock and dashes up the steps, two at a time. Sherlock follows closely behind. As the detective enters their flat, he is nearly hit in the face by John's suit jacket.

The doctor tears through the buttons of the white silk shirt and tosses it across the room at Sherlock's feet. The taller man stands there and watches the obvious display of pique with great interest.

"Is this you being sexually suggestive, John?" He turns his wrist, glances at his watch, then looks back at John. "We do have nearly two hours before we have to leave for my appointment at Cordoa's."

The dark blue eyes narrow, as John unzips and steps out of the suit trousers. These, too, are tossed across the room. Completely butt-arsed naked, he crosses in front of the detective on his way to the loo.

"Going to shower," he mutters.

"John, I might point out you showered this morning and have done nothing since then to make another one necessary."

John pokes his head around the corner of the short hallway. "Done nothing since then, Sherlock Holmes? I've only had three different men's hands all over me. That's six hands, Sherlock.  _None_ of them yours!" He shakes his blonde head and disappears into their bathroom. "Done fucking  _nothing_  since then!"

The door slams behind him.

Sherlock sighs and crosses to his violin.

A moment later, the loo door opens and John stalks, still naked, back into their living area.

"Well? Are you coming with or what?" he demands.

Sherlock lays his violin gently back down on the sofa and follows his obviously aroused soldier down the hall, smirking as he goes.

**OooOooO**

One hour later – "John?

"Hmmm."

"John?"

"Hmmm."

"John! Captain John Watson!"

"Yes, all right. Awake now. What  _is_  it Sherlock?"

"John, I'm not entirely certain that what we just did is  _– legal_  – in England."

Moment's pause.

"Never mind, Sherlock. It's legal somewhere in the universe."

"As you say, John."

"Hmmmm."

**OooOooO**

"Buon giorno."

"Buon giorno."

The frankly gorgeous redheaded female receptionist greets both men with undisguised delight. Sherlock slips easily into Italian and John mentally groans.  _Is there something in the bloody water today? Will everyone just speak English, for fucks sake?_

"Sono Sherlock Holmes." He turns to John, who stares at him as if he's insane.

"Potrei presentare Watson di Dottore?"

The woman smiles, all shining white teeth, sleek auburn curls and warm olive skin. She rises to her feet – she has at least two inches on John in the heels - and extends one slim hand to John but he notes she does not do the same with Sherlock. He assumes it is because of the detective's wrist injuries. Or perhaps she has been doing a bit of reading and knows the detective prefers not to shake hands.

John takes her hand and stumbles through a "Good Afternoon" in English. At her brilliant smile, the temperature in the room appears to rise by several degrees.

"I know who you are, Signore Holmes, as well as recognizing your companion, Doctor John Wat-son," she says graciously. "Doctor Cordoa is waiting for you. Entrate, prego. Did you bring your – Ah! I see you have your instrument with you. Please, gentlemen, follow me. No need to stand on formality."

Her English is excellent, spoken in a warm accent that two years ago, would have had John's motor racing.

Now, it's just charming.

John raises a blonde eyebrow. No insurance information has been requested or presented. No demand for upfront payment. No multiple forms have been handed over, with the request to "Please take the next two hours to complete these forms, and please sign over your first-born while you are at it. We will then let you wait another hour or so before we deign to see you."

" _Mycroft,"_  John thinks. " _Gotta be." Even when the elder Holmes brother isn't actually in the room – he still is._

Sherlock glances briefly from Ms. Incredible to John. A glint of humor plays around his lips. John narrows his eyes and mentally dares the detective to say a word.

_Arse. Bastard._

He follows Sherlock, who follows the frankly amazing figure in the slim willow-green dress into Doctor Cordoa's office.

The door shuts behind them.

Less than five minutes later, John excuses himself quietly while Dr. Cordoa speaks with Sherlock – in friggin Italian, John notes sourly - and ducks back into the waiting area.

He glances around, nods at the receptionist, who smiles brilliantly back at him, then walks quickly down the hall.

" _Am I going to spend the rest of my days diving into the gents every damn time this happens,"_  he thinks _. "Cause…shite."_

Grateful that the doctor employs honest-to-god paper towels, John rips off a handful, soaks them in the sink, then leans over while he wipes his face. The tremors are faint, barely noticeable, and the frisson of pain is more than bearable. He's had worse cutting himself shaving.

_Soon. This may be the last time right here. God. Please._

He hears the text alert and fumbles his mobile out of his jacket pocket.

_**John?** _

_**SH** _

**I'm fine.**

**Over it now.**

**Pay attn to Dr.**

**JW**

_**Certain?** _

_**SH** _

**I'm fine.**

**Need some air.**

**Call or text when you're done.**

**JW**

_**Okay** _

_**See you later ?** _

_**SH** _

**Of course, you nit**

**JW**

**OooOooO**

" _Paganini Caprice No. 24,_  Signore Holmes, if you would be so kind."

Sherlock's eyes widen at Cordoa's request. The piece is in his repertoire but can be difficult to execute. He usually reserves it for after he's warmed up considerably on others.

But Cordoa makes the request and he obligingly slides into No. 24, knowing that it is far from his best work. When the doctor asks if he requires the sheet music, Sherlock merely raises an eyebrow, turns partially away from the doctor and begins.

Cordoa nods and walks back and forth, listening and watching Sherlock, in his rather large office - if it can be called that. Sherlock thinks it resembles nothing so much as the library at the Holmes estate, smaller, of course, and without the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and thousands of volumes.

The doctor stands in front of the heavily draped windows and listens, then crosses to his desk, then back to the table by the door, then back to the windows. All the while he keeps a discerning eye on Sherlock as he plays.

Once and once only, he comes up behind the detective and places one flat palm against Sherlock's back. Sherlock stiffens, hesitates, then stands and allows it and continues playing. Cordoa nods and lets his palm drop. He goes back to the other side of the room.

After less than five minutes, he calls a halt. Sherlock lowers his bow and regards the doctor with his cool gaze.

At Cordoa's insistence, he crosses to the large desk and seats himself in one of the leather-bound chairs.

Cordoa crosses to a lighted view box on the wall and re-examines Sherlock's wrist x-rays.

"I find no evidence of focal dystonia, Signore Holmes, none whatsoever," Doctor Cordoa says. By mutual agreement, both men have switched to English.

He cocks his grey head and looks at Sherlock with interest. "What made you think your  _problems_ might stem from that?"

A sharp intake of breath, more relief than anything and Sherlock comes to his feet and paces – once – across the room and back, John's violin (he has begun to refer to it as such mentally) held tightly in his left hand, the bow in his right. He seats himself again, as if by that short walk, he dispelled pent-up energy. His voice is a cool drawl when he answers Cordoa's question.

"Unimportant, as you have ruled it out."

Cordoa crosses to Sherlock, who discerns his purpose and gently lays John's violin on the desk, alongside the bow. He quickly unbuttons his cuffs. Cordoa takes each pale wrist in his hands, turns them over and examines with interest the row of red marks. His thumb presses gently inward.

"If I did not know any the better –" he glances up at Sherlock, "I would think these were caused by the  _barbed_  wire?"

"Yes, that is correct." Sherlock gently disengages his wrists from Cordoa's hands and lowers his cuffs to cover the red scars.

"Per amor di Dio!"

Sherlock frowns. He buttons his cuffs, stands and goes back to pacing.

Cordoa looks again at the x-rays. He leans toward the view box and speaks quietly, more to himself than to Sherlock. "Your posture is excellent. The scroll alignment, excellent. Shifting, vibrato, left-hand control, muscular control, on the other hand, well –"

He turns to regard the detective as he paces around the sound-proofed room.

"Do you always play vertical? Aw, I see. Well, are you aware you have been breathing shallow the entire time you played and that you have the slightest of tremors in your left hand?"

Sherlock stops pacing and regards Cordoa across the room.

Cordoa smiles, nods to himself and turns off the view box. He crosses to sit in the chair behind his desk.

"We have work to do, Signore Holmes. But things are not as bleak as you painted them over il telefo – over the phone."

Sherlock nods, an expression of relief on his face.

**OooOooO**

John leaves Sherlock at Cordoa's, and takes a cab. A mile toward his destination, he asks the cab driver to please pull over outside a small floral shop. After asking the cabbie to wait, he runs in and is back out again in less than five minutes.

Thirty minutes later he pays and dismisses the cab driver. He stops in at the small office at the entrance to the cemetery. After consulting with the administrator at the desk, he makes his way over the rolling green grass. It's not an arduous walk, nevertheless his thigh twinges by the time he reaches his destination.

Sally Donovan's tombstone marker is simple, light grey marble, clean lines, just as he expected. The grass has grown in, green, verdant, also just as he expected.

What he didn't expect is the lurch over the heart, how his hands clench into fists by his side as he reads the simple lines engraved into the pale marble.

**_Sally M. Donovan._ **

**_Sister, daughter, friend, colleague._ **

**_You are greatly missed._ **

John bends to gently place the yellow roses on the green grass, then stands there for a few minutes and remembers the woman, the police sergeant, and what she was like, that night of nights…his and Sherlock's first case together. He mentally replays her taunts directed toward the detective. How Sherlock countered and the shocked silence as Sally realized the detective had deduced exactly what she had been doing the evening before.

He compares this mental picture to the seasoned police sergeant – and thoroughly decent human being - determined to be of assistance to both Sherlock and Lestrade in discovering his whereabouts and bringing him home safely.

And he recalls their lunch together, two months before his kidnapping, just the two of them, sitting at the small café table, in the cool fall air, chatting about anything and everything, her respect for Gregory Lestrade, her career with the Yard, Sally's hopes for promotion, their mutual interest in James Bond novels – before he had finally broached the subject of her on-again, off-again relationship with Anderson.

He shuts his eyes and recalls his one contribution to that particular topic.

"You're better than this, Sally. You deserve more than he can – or will – ever give you."

He expected her anger over his presumption . Instead, she had ducked her head, run her fingertip over the rim of her tea cup and nodded.

"You're right, John," she had quietly said.

That afternoon, sitting there in the late fall sunlight and chatting, just about the only thing they didn't touch on was John's relationship with Sherlock. John didn't bring it up and she had never inquired.

John's eyes are shadowed with pain as he nods once at the marble headstone.

"I'm sorry. Truly sorry," he whispers. "You deserved so much more than this."

He lifts his head and glances around. A few mourners stand some distance away from him, staring down at similar headstones, some of them huddled against each other. He hears the slight footsteps in the soft grass behind him and half turns, expecting to see Sherlock standing there.

Someone does come to stand beside him, but it isn't Sherlock.

Phillip Anderson reaches down and places the small bunch of flowers on the green grass, nestling them against the grey marble, next to John's yellow roses. Daisies, backed by dark greenery.

Anderson looks at the lines on the stone, then looks at John. The two men regard each other over Sally Donovan's grave.

"Where's your bloody colleague?" Anderson asks.

John considers not answering but then mentally shrugs.  _What the hell._  He has no intention of arguing over Sally Donovan's grave.

"He had another appointment."

"Thought the two of you were damn near inseparable," Anderson drawls. He bends over and rearranges the flowers slightly, then stands.

John doesn't dignify his statement with a response. His skin prickles around the arse of a forensic specialist. One of them just needs to leave.

"It wasn't your fault, Watson," says Anderson. John looks up at him, his face grim.

"And how do you figure that?" he says.

Anderson just shakes his head. "Don't. You're not to blame. The bastards who targeted the car she was in, who tried to murder the driver, that little nurse? They're the sobs responsible for this."

He starts to say something more to John, but his voice cracks momentarily and he breaks off. John studies the gravestone in order to give Anderson time to compose himself.

John reads the simple lines again and shakes his head. "She told me once that she hoped, when she died, that it was in the line of duty. That it came fast, sudden. And not from a heart attack on the sofa, watching telly, or from breast cancer, which killed her Mum, or from old age or any number of other reasons."

Anderson looks startled, as if he had never entertained the idea of Doctor Watson discussing anything with Sergeant Sally Donovan, unless it was the mad detective who seemed bound and determined to ruin his professional career – and keep him in a constant state of exasperation.

He looks steadily at John Watson. "If that is true, Watson, then the way I look at it, she got her wish. And it wasn't your fault. She would have hated that, your thinking you could have prevented this. You should know that she was right there, along with all of us, doing her damndest to find you."

"All of us," John repeats. His brow furrows in confusion.

"Yes. You've a lot of friends at the Yard, Doctor Watson. You ought to know that by now."

Anderson takes a deep breath and glances around at the green grass, the row upon row of tombstones, the blue sky overhead. He shakes himself and turns to go. Before he leaves, he tosses one last sentence over his shoulder at John.

"Tell that horse's arse of a colleague of yours that he was correct about the last body," he says.

And he walks away – from John Watson and from Sally Donovan's grave.

A few feet away, Anderson pauses, then turns back to regard the Army doctor.

"She's in Children's Hospital. Cancer ward."

John frowns. "Who is?"

"Detective Inspector Lestrade's daughter." He looks hard at John for a moment, then turns and leaves.

John stands there and watches him go.

**OooOooO**

On the pavement outside Cordoa's office, Sherlock plunges both hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and raises one eyebrow. The black car sits waiting at the kerb, the profile of the lone occupant of the back seat offensively familiar.

The driver, one of his brother's men, steps out, opens the back passenger door and waits. Sherlock fingers something in his pocket, then sighs dramatically and gets into the car. He has to duck his head in order to enter without knocking his scalp on the frame.

The driver slams the door behind Sherlock, then gets in behind the wheel and glances in the rearview mirror at Mycroft. Sherlock automatically deduces: mid 30's, dark brown hair, brown eyes which don't miss a trick – Sherlock has no doubt they have photographed the entire street, and committed it all to memory, including himself and what he wears, the second the car pulled up to the kerb. (Unmarried, just entered into a relationship with a fellow agent, dangerous that, and he should warn Mycroft, but then smirks as he realises his brother undoubtedly knows it already, and yes, former military. Not Army. Marines? Heaven's! His brother has engaged an American agent. Novel.)

"Sir?"

"Baker Street, please."

"Yes sir."

That settles it. Sherlock's lips turn up marginally. American, then. Most probably Texan. He instantly thinks of Doctor Margaret Oakton and frowns. Didn't John have an appointment with her? Aborted now due to their recent bout with influenza? He wonders if John has rescheduled and not bothered to mention it to him.

"So, dear brother, how goes the first appointment?"

"What are you doing here, Mycroft? Don't tell me my ability to play the violin made the top of your International To Do list. Did I at least edge off today's bakery run?"

Mycroft considers his brother's profile for a second, then lifts a slim file folder from the seat between them. He hands it to Sherlock, who looks at it, but does not raise his hand to accept it. Mycroft shakes his head and tosses it on the seat between them.

"A case? Excellent. I did not want to attend the boring festivities at the manor this weekend anyway. This is much better, even if it is one of your more plebian state's secrets problems."

"It's not a case, Sherlock."

Sherlock lets the folder lie between them and brings his hand out of the pocket of his jacket. He tosses something into Mycroft's lap.

"What in the hell are you on about, Mycroft? And what has our grand-oncle's estate got to do with the violin John purchased?"

Mycroft picks up the small card and runs a finger over the deckled edge. He reads both sides and raises an eyebrow.

He looks at his brother. "You've done all the usual tests?"

"Naturally." Sherlock turns to watch the scenery outside his window. He wonders where John is and frowns.

He looks back at his brother who has a frankly puzzled look on his face.

"Oh, don't pretend you didn't have anything to do with this, Mycroft," Sherlock demands.

"I can most definitely assure you, Sherlock, that I had absolutely nothing to do with this."

Mycroft regards the small card with pursed lips. He turns to look at his younger brother.

"Have you—"

"Visited the shop? No. But it's next on my agenda."

Mycroft nods slowly. "In that instance, dear brother, I would request to accompany you."

He leans forward slightly. The driver glances in his rearview mirror, then pushes a button.

"Yes sir?"

"Slight change of destination, Robert." He gives the man the address of the shop off the card in his hands.

Sherlock says nothing but his eyes narrow as he watches the scenery.

Mycroft hands the card back to Sherlock, who takes it without a glance.

"You should know, Sherlock, that regardless of this charming little mystery, your friend, Detective Inspector Lestrade, is undergoing a personal crisis."

Sherlock turns his head to look at his brother. This time, he takes the folder that Mycroft extends toward him.

**OooOooO**

At the rather nondescript shop in Basingstoke, both men stand and watch the small man behind the counter perspire.

Bennett Thompson has never seen such tall men in his life. Or more terrifying. He wipes his brow again with his handkerchief, then shakingly replaces it in his pocket.

"What we are requesting, Mr. Thompson, is to speak to your employee who sold this particular instrument."

Thompson stands and stares at the card. He has read it three times over now and will frankly dream about the damned thing. He shakes his head and hands the card back to Sherlock.

"Mr. –  _Holmes_? Ryan is no longer with us, I'm afraid. He failed to show up for work a few weeks back, after a rather unremarkable six-month career with us."

Mycroft balances his umbrella and leans slightly against it. He regards the small man with pity. "Can you tell us why this 'Ryan' no longer works here, Mr. Thompson. I assure you, it is of utmost importance we locate the young man."

Sherlock watches Thompson as his eyes squirm. Thomson actually insinuates a finger in his collar and tugs, as if his shirt is a bit too tight. Cliché. The detective's eyes narrow.

"We have no earthly idea why he decided to terminate his relationship with this establishment, Mr. Holmes. Just that he did. We have been unable to locate the young man. He has not answered his mobile."

He frowns at the card in Sherlock's hand as if it has done him a personal injustice.

"We thought of filing a complaint with the local police, but the management decided against it."

"And why would that be, Mr. Thompson?" Mycroft's smile is downright feral.

Sherlock just watches and listens, content to let his brother do most of the talking here. Sometimes having an utter bastard for a brother, someone highly skilled in interrogation techniques, does come in handy.

"I'm not entirely certain, Sir. I believe it had to do with the sale Ryan made the day before he _disappeared_. But no complaint was ever filed. Management just let the matter drop. And since the gentleman in question never returned to complain, well -."

Sherlock fingers the card in his hand, then glances around the shop and back to Thompson. "Gentleman in question? You mean the purchaser of this instrument?" He holds up the card.

Thompson takes the card once more and winces. He hands it back again. Second time.

"No, Sir. That's the entire point. We have no record of ever carrying any object, musical or otherwise, from an estate with these initials. But it is interesting that you brought that particular card in here with you today."

He bends down and brings up a small box from behind the counter. He removes the lid and extracts two cards, hands both to Sherlock, who passes one back to Mycroft.

Mycroft looks at the small white card with the shops' logo and address printed on one side. He turns the card over, then flips it again.

"I must admit to some confusion, Mr. Thompson." He glances at the back of his brother's head. Sherlock nods, a nearly imperceptible movement.

Thompson frowns. "The card you hold in your hand, Mr. Holmes, did not come from this shop. We have never had cards like that, to my knowledge, and I have been here over ten years."

Mycroft smiles graciously at the balding proprietor. "Then how do you explain the fact that this card, with your shop's address, came to be included with the instrument in question? A rather remarkable violin, one of the Cremonas. And how did you infer that this missing 'Ryan' had anything whatsoever to do with this particular transaction?"

"Because his initials are penciled in the corner of your card. We all do that when we make a sale. Wait. Violin?" says Bennet Thompson. "Excuse me, gentlemen." He looks from Mycroft to Sherlock and back again. "Are you saying that the instrument in question was a violin?"

"Yes, of course. What do you think we have been talking about this entire time?" Mycroft says, impatience obvious in his tone of voice.

Sherlock plunges his hands in the pockets of his jacket. He never takes his eyes off Thompson.

Mr. Thompson stares at Mycroft and tries to ignore the man closer to him, the one with the disconcerting eyes. "The day before he failed to show for work, Ryan made a sale. He sold a violin to a young man. He rang up the transaction, took the gentleman's money and Ship To address, and recorded the sale in our computer."

"But?" prompts Sherlock. His eyes watch every nuance on Thompson's face.

Thompson swallows.

"Well, sir, if you must know, he never packed or shipped the original instrument. Obviously, because he never returned to work and hence, was not here to do so. It's still here in the shop. When we realized that fact, we tried to contact the client in question. But no mobile was on file. Ryan had failed to request it, unfortunately, a common occurrence with him. Frankly, we were about to give him notice. We did promptly refund the purchase amount, of course, via electronic funds transfer to the customer's card. And we mailed a note to the address on file. But have not heard from him further. If the  _purchaser_ in question actually received an instrument, it wasn't the one he originally negotiated for nor one that this shop has ever carried."

Mycroft raises one imperious eyebrow.

Sherlock just smiles grimly. Life just got interesting again.

**OooOooO**

"Greg."

"John. Where's Sherlock?"

John's eyes widen in slight exasperation. If one more person asks him that today…

"He doesn't follow me everywhere, Greg."

Lestrade raises one eyebrow. Then just indicates the visitor chair. John sits. The two men look at each other.

John clears his throat. "Er, Greg –"

"It's all right, John. Bound to come out sooner or later. This visit is about Chrissie, right?"

John nods. "If there's anything I can do. Any contacts I might have –"

"Yeah. That would be great."

The D.I. picks up his favorite pen and drums a small rhythm on his pad. John watches his friend, then clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward. He looks from the crumpled hat, obviously hiding Lestrade's shaved head, to the pen in his hand.

"Greg – how bad is it?"

Greg stops drumming, then tosses the pen aside. He leans back in his chair.

"Bad as it can be, John. Same thing that killed Laura. Same –" the rough voice cracks.

John nods. "Okay. You'll have to sign a release to get me on your team. There may be objections. I'm not an oncologist. Hell, at the moment, I'm not even a doctor. So permission has to come direct from you, her parent. But I'll need your okay to ask the names of her doctors, what's been done already, what medications she's currently on, how far along you are in –"

"Anything, John. Ask anything you want. I just can't –"

Lestrade stops speaking and lifts a hand to his head, realises there is no hair there, and lets it fall again. "Chrissie's our youngest, John. And I can't … I don't know if I –"

John comes to his feet and around to Greg's side and places one hand on the D.I.'s shoulder. He squeezes. Greg leans forward and buries his face in his hands.

"God, John. She's just so damned small. I don't understand why … if I could just understand any of this…"

Sherlock pauses in the doorway, which has been left half open. He stares as John Watson puts his warm hand on Gregory Lestrade's shoulder, and murmurs to the other man.

John glances up, sees the detective and slightly shakes his head. Sherlock's eyes widen, but he nods and retreats.

Directly outside Lestrade's office, Sherlock plunges his hands in the pocket of his jacket, as he leans against a wall and idly watches the Yarders at their desks. A small frown line appears between his pale eyes.

Then he hears rapid footsteps and a few seconds later, John joins him. The two men glance at each other and John jerks his head toward the exit.

Outside New Scotland Yard, Sherlock hails a taxi. Neither of the men speak until they are both ensconced in the back seat.

"Mycroft told me about Lestrade's daughter," Sherlock says. He watches the scenery pass by his window.

"Yes, Anderson mentioned it earlier."

Sherlock turns to regard his soldier's profile. "At Donovan's grave?"

John turns slowly to look at the detective. "You followed me." It's a statement, not a question.

"No, John, I was with my brother. But I smell flowers, roses if I'm not mistaken. I don't see any in the taxi, nor were there any in Lestrade's office, so I assume you purchased them and left them elsewhere. The fact you selected roses speaks to a female recipient. It could not have been at the hospital as they would not allow them in the child's room. To my knowledge, you haven't visited Donovan's gravesite yet; the rest was inference."

"Jesus," John mutters.

"Lestrade's daughter - how bad is it?" Sherlock asks.

John stares out his side of the window. "Pretty damn bad," he says.

They don't have much to say after that.

**OooOooO**

**Baker Street – 4 pm**

The closer they come to the time to leave for the Holmes estate, the more antsy Sherlock becomes. And the more arrogant. Rude. Snarky, even.

Both men hurriedly pack for the long weekend. Only Sherlock holds a running comment on everything as they work.

After Sherlock comments rudely on John's blog (imprecise, romanticized drivel); John's choice of clothing he packs to take to the manor (boring; pedestrian _; for God's sake, John, have you learned_   _nothing about clothing after two years of living with me_?); John's tea-drinking habits (predictable; plebian; disgustingly British) and John's after shave ("I'm not wearing any, Sherlock." "Mouthwash then. Spearmint – really, John? Did you splash it on or what?") the soldier has had enough.

John goes to their bedroom and tosses more clean clothing in his duffle. At the last minute, he fingers one of his rather worn jumpers and remembers something. There were boxes of clothes, with his name on them, delivered to the flat the same day the new pc's were also received. He remembers kicking them aside to look at later.

He glances around, doesn't see what he is looking for and finally climbs the stairs to rummage in the cupboard.  _Yes._  There are the two boxes, neatly stacked. Mrs. Hudson, obviously.

Downstairs again, boxes in hand, he ignores the pacing lunatic who frankly, is getting on his last nerve, and dumps the contents on the extra bed. John's eyes widen. Several close-fitting V-necked jumpers in various soft hues, cashmere, he thinks, tumble out on the bed, along with matching button-down shirts. There are three pairs of trousers, already hemmed to his length, and three pair of new jeans.

John stares at this bounty.

" _God bless Anthea. The woman is a saint,"_ thinks John _._

He dumps out his duffle, repacks it as neatly as possible with the new clothes, adds his kit, then glances around. Yup. All done. He checks the clip on his Browning, then slides it in the back of his trousers and tugs his jumper over it. He shrugs on a jacket and opens the door again, just in time to see a lanky figure disappear down the steps, carryall in hand.

_Great. Just fucking great._

John checks his pockets for his wallet, mobile and keys, one set of keys in particular, then locks the flat door behind him.

Outside the black doors of 221B, John watches as a long black car slides to the kerb. Obviously, Mycroft sent a car for them.  _Makes sense_ , John thinks. He doesn't even want to think about cab fare to the Holmes estate.

 _On the other hand_ …he glances at Sherlock, who stands there, his carryall at his feet, his back to John.

The driver pushes a button and the boot opens, then the rear door unlocks and Sherlock sighs. The detective tosses his bag into the boot, and for the first time glances at John.

John looks back at him impassively. Sherlock's eyes are shuttered, entirely grey.

"Well?" the detective's voice is a cool drawl. He stares into John's eyes as if he doesn't really know – or care to know – the doctor.

That settles it for John. He shakes his head and takes a step back.

"I'll be right behind you" he says. He doesn't wait for an answer but grabs his duffle and goes back into Baker Street. Behind him, Sherlock nods once, gets in the car and they leave.

In the flat, John tosses his duffle to the floor, runs one hand through his white-blonde hair and goes to make a cup of tea. While he waits for the kettle, he paces in agitation back and forth in their living area. He glances once at the duffle, remembers something and goes into the loo. His robe. He snatches the worn garment off the hook and balls it up in his hand, preparatory to stuffing it in his bag.

Something crinkles.

John frowns, then pulls the document Sherlock gave him this morning from a pocket. The tea kettle whistles and still holding the envelope, he crosses into the kitchen and makes a cup.

John sits at the table while the tea cools and fingers the envelope. Finally, he pulls the two sheets out and reads them again. His eyes widen and he drops his head forward into his hands and sits like that for a few minutes, his dark blue eyes closed against his palms.

_Jesus. I know – I fucking know – why Sherlock is like this. The last thing he wants to do is spend any time at the estate, particularly since his mother – and Mycroft – will be in attendance. These are the two people who 'sent him away' and left him there … and fuck it all … I just sent him off by himself to meet them alone._

John lifts his head and glances around the kitchen, then into the living area.

"Bloody hell," he says aloud.

He slips the two sheets inside their envelope, nods, then rises and goes into their bedroom. At the bureau, he gently places the envelope on the top, next to a pile of change and the protective glasses he wears when riding the Harley.

John picks up the glasses, then drops his hand to his pocket and grabs the motorcycle keys. He looks around their bedroom, his gaze taking in the periodic table pinned to the wall, the neat stack of magazines by the bed, some of them forensic in nature, many of them to do with raising bees, The Practical Apiarist on top of the stack. He looks at their bed, rumpled from their lovemaking that afternoon.

Finally, he glances over at the spare bed, and there sits the Gladstone bag Sherlock gifted him with on their anniversary. John crosses over, sits on the edge of the bed, and pulls the bag to him. He rubs his fingers over the worn edges, then reaches inside and pulls out the letter that came with the bag.

He thinks of what it must have cost Sherlock in time and thought, to come up with such a perfect gift, and then follow it through.

John shakes his head.

"You asked me a question two weeks back, Sherlock," John says aloud to the empty room. "I think it's time I gave you the answer."

Mind made up, John stands and leaves their bedroom. He drinks half the cup of tea in one smooth gulp, rinses out the glass and neatly stacks mug and plate in their sink. He gives the flat one last glance, then dons the dark glasses, pockets the keys to the Harley and grabs his duffle.

_All right then, Regina Holmes. The game is on._

John locks the flat and dashes down the stairs.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock and Mycroft's driver do not speak to each other, other than once, when his brother's agent informs him he's stopping for petrol and the loo.

Sherlock just nods. And winces against the afternoon sun as it slants in the windows. His head aches.

He fingers the card in his pocket and thinks of John.

He highly doubts John will follow him to the manor. Not after the rather rude things he said to the man.  _Well …_  Sherlock mentally shrugs.  _If living with him for the past two years hasn't inured John to the occasional sour mood, so be it._

 _Still …_  Sherlock glances to the empty space beside him, then returns his attention to the scenery outside the window.

**OooOooO**

Eugenia Robinson meets Sherlock at the front entrance of the Holmes mansion. Usually, he would walk around to the side, go through the gate, and enter the house through the walled kitchen garden.

But he is watching for John and today, he stands outside the front doors.

He wonders, briefly, where his mother is. It's clear to him that Mycroft has not yet arrived at the manor.

He looks down the long drive, then glances at the setting sun. It will be dark soon. And John has not arrived. He wonders, briefly, if the doctor has enough cash to pay the cab driver, then dismisses the thought as being unimportant.

 _It's more than obvious that John will not be joining him. Fine._  He'll spend the night, answer his mother's tedious questions, and take a cab back to Baker Street in the morning.

Mrs. Robinson smiles broadly at him when she opens the door and sees him as he stands there, carryall at his feet and hands plunged into the pockets of his trousers, tall back to the door. He turns as she flings the doors wide.

She's known Sherlock since he was a small child and does not stand on formality.

"There you are at last! Heavens, standing outside like you're a guest and not a member of this family. Dinner is long past but we've put plates back for both of you. Now then, where's your young man? I was gone months ago when you brought him by, and I've yet to meet him. Oh!"

At the sound of the Harley's engine, Sherlock turns. And smiles. His bad mood vanishes into the ether and he takes a deep breath, his first in hours.

_John._

The sun is just thinking of setting. At the last moment, it decides to hang around for a few minutes so it's brilliant rays can pick out the shining black of the vintage Harley, glance off the chrome of the handlebars and for a few glorious seconds, set John Watson's bright head aflame.

John is feeling very good indeed. Instead of riding the bike to the side garage entrance, he comes up the long drive in a straight shot and at the last moment, turns to the front entryway. The bike roars to a stop a few inches from Sherlock's designer Italian shoes.

Totally confident of John's ability with the Harley, Sherlock does not move back by so much as an inch.

The detective stands there and watches as John comes to a halt on the bike. He wears the deep purple shirt John loves. The setting sun glances off Sherlock's head and John can clearly see the few shining grey hairs his lover has accumulated in the past few months.

Sherlock for his part, rocks back on his heels, hands still in his trouser pockets, very pleased indeed with his paramour for the rather spectacular way in which he has arrived. He is more than aware that several of his mother's staff is at the windows, undoubtedly ogling John.

He mentally tells them to queue up.

John cuts the Harley's engine, yanks off his helmet, swings one slim jean-clad leg over and stands, hooking his shades in the pocket of his leather jacket as he does so. He tosses the helmet over the handlebars and turns to free his worn duffle from its restraints on the back of the bike. He still wears his tan gloves.

He wears a worn pair of jeans - jeans so tight Sherlock wonders how his soldier has managed to ride the motorcycle and still breathe. The worn leather jacket John was given by a friend in the British RA is open over the tight black tee.

A shining dog tag hangs around his neck.

John strides the few feet to Sherlock, tosses his duffle on the ground, grabs his paramour by the waist and reaches up to kiss him full on the lips, watchers be damned. Sherlock has been inordinately worried about this weekend for days. John intends to take care of that right now. Set boundaries.

And make it absolutely, positively 100% clear to all and sundry just who the tall lanky git in the purple shirt and silk trousers belongs to.

He begins by kissing Sherlock like a house on fire.

And the British Government and his scary Mum-in-law, can go hang as far as he's concerned.

John whispers huskily in Sherlock's ear.

"Two weeks back? Your question about us? The answer is Hell, Yes! And frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn who knows it."

Sherlock's mind races back one week, two. And his eidedic memory finds the question he asked John. Just before John choked and spit tea all over his guns.

He smirks at Johns' answer.  _Well, all right then._  It seems that cupboard doors are to be thrown open and consequences be damned. He takes his hands out of his pockets, puts them on John's shoulders, careful over the bad one. He grabs a fistful of worn leather jacket, pulls John to him – and proceeds to kiss John back, right into next Tuesday.

Aware that his mother's housekeeper stands a few feet away, jaw agape, Sherlock straightens and brushes John's hair back from his forehead. "Fine, the game is on," he breathes over John's bright hair. "But try not to scare the horses."

John just grins happily up at him.

 _Oh ho,_  Sherlock thinks.  _So it's going to be this kind of weekend_. He had expected John to show reticence about their relationship in front of Mummy, Mycroft, and his mother's staff; has been expecting it for days, in fact. Well, John has just dispelled all those doubts.

John turns and to his credit, manages a blush. Sherlock turns with him to make the introduction.

"Mrs. Eugenia Robinson, my fiancée, Doctor John Hamish Watson, formerly Captain Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Oh my!" Mrs. Robinson says.

She takes the hand that John extends and he winks once at her. And immediately puts on his best behavior. Sherlock has no doubt she'd curtsey, if her knees would let her.

"Happy to meet you at last, Mrs. Robinson. I understand we have you to thank for the impeccable condition of this lovely home."

"Eugenia, please!" and Sherlock's eyes couldn't get any bigger if they tried. This woman has been with his Mum for years and all that time, she has been simply "Mrs. Robinson" to all and sundry. He has always suspected her own daughters have to call her Mrs. Robinson.

But two minutes in and John gets to call her Eugenia.

"I'd be too embarrassed. Mrs. Robinson it is, if you don't mind," John says. "And it's John, please. None of this Captain nonsense. Haven't been a captain for a while now."

John turns, hoists his own duffle, winks solemnly at Sherlock and turns back to the Head Housekeeper of the Holmes family estate.

"After you, Mrs. Robinson, please." Flustered, Eugenia Robinson precedes them both into the house.

Before Sherlock passes under the arch, he throws his head back and glances upward – at his Mother where she stands two floors up, at the window of her room, watching the tableau below.

With a feeling of incredible smugness, topped off by the stirrings of a niggling headache, he follows John, and Mrs. Robinson, into the Holmes mansion.

The door closes behind them.

In the west, the sun, a bit disheartened that it can no longer hang around and bring out the gleaming highlights in John Watson's bright hair, decides it might as well set.

So it does.

**OooOooO**

The two men follow Mrs. Robinson through the front hallway to the kitchen as that is obviously her first stop. Both men would look askance at the formal dining room, particularly this late on a Friday evening and the housekeeper knows this. She does not stand on protocol, not with the youngest Holmes son.

Both John and Sherlock leave their bags by the front door. John suspects – Sherlock knows – that both bags will be picked up and delivered to the West Wing, Sherlock's wing, quickly and quietly.

Other than a brief glimpse of one young woman, who comes from the back hall, her arms full of linens, and who smiles shyly, then ducks out of sight, John encounters no one. He nods. Excellent. He's exhausted. Something is wrong with Sherlock – still. And he wants nothing more than to go to their room and retire for the night.

He and the detective have a lot of talking to do. He can deal with Regina Holmes tomorrow. He fervently hopes the Holmes matron has retired for the evening and intends on leaving both men to their own devices.

"Will your brother, Mycroft, be joining us this evening?" Mrs. Robinson tosses out as she precedes both men down the hall.h

"Unlikely, Mrs. Robinson," Sherlock says. He's aware of John's warm presence beside him and he takes another deep breath, tries to dispel the growing headache which threatens to reach sickening proportions soon.

Perhaps if he just eats something. And sleeps. Sherlock usually just catnaps but now that he's here at the estate and John is with him, he feels as if he could sleep for days.

That's it. Obvious. He's tired and hungry. It may all be just transport, but as John has repeatedly pointed out, even transport needs fuel. And rest.

Mrs. Robinson, however, keeps up a small running commentary, even while she bids them both to sit at the counter in the kitchen, and brings out plates of food.

She gushes on about changes to the garden, to the grounds, to the stables, all the while keeping an eye on both men to anticipate their needs. John accepts milk with his meal, then tea. He glances pointedly at Sherlock, who sighs and picks up his fork.

Halfway through the casual meal, John looks over at Sherlock – and frowns at the obviously dilated pupils. Sherlock lays his fork down and winces at the bright overhead lights.

"Excuse me, Mrs. Robinson, John," he says quietly.

The housekeeper just nods. "Everything's in readiness. Go on up, young man," she says as she continues to ply John with "One more slice, surely?"

John watches him go through the doors.

A few minutes later, John makes his excuses and walks quickly up the stairs, turns at the top and goes on to the west wing. He's been here twice before, although he hasn't spent the night either time. Still, he more than knows his way around.

John passes by several closed doors, then comes into their darkened bedroom and stands for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust. He makes his way to the bedside. The heavy drapes have been pulled and only the barest hint of light intrudes.

Sherlock lies on top of the duvet, fully dressed, in his stocking feet, with one arm thrown over his eyes. His silk jacket has been tossed on the floor next to the bed. The hand that lies by his side twitches ever slightly. John can see the involuntary movement, once his eyes adjust to the gloom.

He looks at the quiet figure, well aware that Sherlock knows he stands there, then crosses to the bathroom, and brings back a cold compress. John bends over, gently removes the arm from Sherlock's eyes and replaces it with the compress. He presses down and holds it there, but does not speak.

When the doctor straightens up as if to move away, Sherlock's left hand shoots up and grabs him around the wrist. John pauses and just waits.

"When were you going to say something, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine, John." The voice is a hushed whisper.

"Yes, you're so fine, you've been suffering from a full-blown migraine and haven't mentioned it."

"John."

"Hush now."

Sherlock barely nods. He releases John's wrist and presses his long fingers against the cold cloth with the barest of groans.

John crosses to the cubby, pulls out his worn duffel where it has been stashed, and rummages in one of the interior pockets. He brings out a small bottle of tablets, checks the label in the light of their bathroom, then tilts two tablets out onto his palm and runs a glass of water.

"Take these."

The detective lowers his hand and winces as he opens his pale eyes. The only real light in the room is the warm light from their bath. He does not question what they are, but manages to sit up and swallow the pills.

"All the water, Sherlock," John says quietly.

The detective grimaces, but finishes the glass, then hands it back to the doctor. He sits on the side of their bed, hunched over his clasped hands.

John kneels on the floor and takes the large hands in his. He tries to impart body warmth by holding the long pale fingers between his palms.

Neither man speaks.

After a minute or two of silence, John speaks quietly.

"Can you lie down now?"

"Not yet, John."

John nods. He continues to hold onto the fingers. He frowns as he notes that the other man's left hand twitches slightly. The movement is small, the barest of tremors, but John knows that for a violinist it can be devastating.

But he doesn't ask. When Sherlock is ready to talk –

"Did you speak with Mummy, John?"

"You know I haven't had the opportunity – yet."

John begins to massage the thenar space, between the thumb and forefinger of first one hand, then the other. He presses in, rubs warm circles, releases the skin, then presses in again.

The detective sighs in relief. Or maybe it's just the human contact he needs now.

"John." His love's voice is a harsh whisper.

"How bad is it, Sherlock?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. Not at first.

"Purgatory, John."

"I was referring to the headache, Sherlock."

"So was I."

"All right."

"John – I –"

"Hush. Not now. Let's get through this night and then –"

"The faster I can get the hell out of here, John, the better for all concerned."

"I know."

The velvet voice is wrecked and John's heart wrenches in his chest.

"John, if I … say anything in the next few days that - I mean. Please. John."

"It's all right. I'm not going anywhere."

John continues to rub the cool skin under his hands. Sherlock shuts his eyes and begins to breathe a bit more deeply. John notes this too, and leans in slightly, adjusting his position in order to maintain contact with the detective's hands and wrists. He extends the gentle massage to the palms and Sherlock lets him. He doesn't pull back from John's touch. Now the wrists, back and forth, gentler over the pale red marks left by the barbed wire, and finally back down to the palms and fingers again.

John comes to a decision. He gently releases Sherlock's hands.

John crosses to their door and quietly locks it, then comes back to the bed, tugging off his jacket as he does so. He toes off his shoes, then makes short work of the jeans, kicking them off in a heap. He crosses to the duffle and pulls out a tube of oil. Dressed only in the black tee, boxers and wool socks, he goes into their bathroom for a few minutes.

When he comes out, another cool compress is in his hands, as well as the bottle of – now warmed – massage oil. He crosses to their bed. He deliberately leaves the bathroom door open so the light streams into the room. Yellow. Comforting.

The detective opens his eyes and John can see that the pupils are enlarged in the light from the bathroom. He sets the items down on the bedside table, then reaches down and gently pulls the taller man to his feet by his wrists. Sherlock stands and looks at his soldier, then shuts his eyes and stands there, swaying.

John quickly divests the taller man of his silk shirt and belt, then pulls the designer trousers down the lean form. The taller man leans on him as he lifts first one foot, then the other in order for John to tug the trousers off completely. The doctor tosses the clothing all in a pile on top of the discarded jacket, then turns his attention to their bed.

He yanks the duvet and bed clothes off the mattress, then touches his lover gently on the elbow. Sherlock glances around, and climbs back onto the mattress, on his stomach, face turned to the far wall. His arms lie by his side and his hands alternately clench, open, then re-clench.

John gently pulls off each silk sock, yanks off his own socks, then climbs onto the mattress, and straddles the pale form with his knees and thighs. He reaches for the tube and warms the oil in his hands. Beginning at the back of Sherlock's head, he begins a slow, deep massage, reaching up under the curls, massaging into the muscles of the scalp, then dragging his palms down the back of the neck and across the shoulders.

He frowns as his fingers encounter the knots of tension in Sherlock's neck, shoulders and upper back, but he says nothing. He just continues the massage, rubbing back and forth over the marble skin, occasionally pouring more oil onto his palms, warming it up first, occasionally blowing on it for warmth, then going back to the deep tissue work.

Slowly, gradually, Sherlock's muscles begin to relax. Once or twice, he even groans in relief. John nods when this happens and adjusts his position in order to bring his palms down the spine and eventually outward to include the hips.

Sherlock says nothing when John reaches his bum, so the doctor gently nudges the silk pants down, and works on the muscles there. He has done this many times before for the love of his life, but sex does not come into it this time. The entire purpose of this massage is pain relief. He is more than aware that Sherlock did not sleep the night before they left Baker Street. He has no intentions of allowing this to continue.

As John works the whipcord muscles under his hands, he struggles to keep all enmity for Regina and Mycroft Holmes from imparting itself to the pale skin.

John begins to work up a sweat as he continues the massage, rooting out every knotted muscle in the tense body under his hands. He finds that his own breathing deepens as he works.

After forty minutes of deep tissue work, John tugs off his perspiration-soaked shirt, then uses it to wipe his face and chest. He tosses it on the floor and turns his attention to the back of the long legs. He notes that Sherlock fell asleep a few minutes earlier and he is content to keep up his work as the other man sleeps. When he reaches the long pale feet, he keeps his touch as firm as possible as he digs into the metatarsal arch. He hears the slight groan that means Sherlock is awake once more.

"Turn over, Love," John whispers.

Sherlock accordingly turns over but keeps his eyes squeezed shut. John gets up, renews the cold compress and presses it firmly over the closed eyes, then takes both hands in his, kisses the fingertips of first one, then the other, before placing the long arms beside his lover's body.

He straddles Sherlock again and starts with the face, stroking smoothly and gently over the sculptured planes, and watches as the lines of pain slowly even out. Then down the chin and neck, across the front of the shoulders, each arm in its turn, ending in deep inroads into the muscles of each arm and hand. Then more warmed oil and back to the firmly muscled chest. The dog tag Sherlock wears gleams occasionally in the low light.

As John works, he lets his carefully rehearsed mental conversation with Regina fade. _To hell with all things Holmes. Later for that._

He works his way down the body, and notes Sherlock remains slack, despite the incredible intimacy of the massage. He has relaxed into John's ministrations without becoming aroused, and John is content with that. Slowly he works his way down the body, ending with the legs and feet once more.

Finally, John moves off the bed and covers Sherlock with the sheet, then the blanket and finally the duvet. He goes to the bathroom to wash off the remainder of the massage oil. He tosses the near empty bottle into his duffle, then shuts the bathroom door. Now the only light in their room is the palest of lights from outside and the tiny sliver of yellow that spills out from under the bathroom door.

John crosses to their bed and climbs in on the opposite side, then scoots gently to the middle and turns to one side so he can encircle Sherlock's head with its dark curls in the hollow of his bent arm and hand. He places his other warm hand on Sherlock's chest, over the detective's heart.

"John…" his love's voice is a whisper, the barest of sounds, but John can still hear it.

"Hush now. Sleep. All you have to do is sleep."

Sherlock nods once, without opening his eyes. But his hand moves and he squeezes John's fingers once, then lowers his arm to his side and seems to sink into the mattress.

John shuts his eyes, relaxes his own muscles and adjusts his breathing. He needs to give Sherlock this time to recover from the migraine but he'll be damned if the detective is going to be left alone to do so.

In the cool darkness of their room, John lets himself replay the day's events, culminating in his and Sherlock's words to each other.

He frowns once when he replays the words Sherlock spoke over 90 minutes earlier, words of quiet desperation,  _"I need to get the hell out of here, John."_

John begins to drift. Both men sleep. Or try to.

Less than thirty minutes later, Sherlock stirs, wakens, then just makes it to the loo before he vomits his first meal at the Holmes mansion into the toilet.

John cleans him up, hands him the mouthwash and gets him back into bed. Sherlock goes without a murmur and almost instantly, falls into a deep sleep. From time to time, John hears him murmur the same word, over and over and over again. The detective's personal litany.

"John…John..JohnJohnJohn. John. John."

John lies by his side and listens. A bit of his heart breaks.

He struggles to remain awake. Finally, worn out and exhausted, his eyes close and he manages a few hours of uninterrupted rest.

Sometime during that first night at the Holmes estate, the last remnants of Frank's filthy drug dissipates and leaves John's system. John, sleeping the sleep of total exhaustion, never even notices.

When John wakes in the morning, Sherlock is no longer in their bed.

**OooOooO**

 


	10. Chapter 10

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 10**

**PROMISES: Mycroft being Mycroft. Mummy being Mummy. And John Watson being all possessive and BAMF. Hope you're okay with that.**

**WARNINGS: Secrets, Sins:  Holmes-family style. Description of child abuse, neglect.  Please be careful.**

**OooOooO**

**Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same."**  
― Emily Brontë,  _Wuthering Heights_

 **It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience, that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin than does the smiling and beautiful countryside."**  
― Arthur Conan Doyle,  _Sherlock Holmes: The Complete Novels and Stories, Volume I_

 

** **

**OooOooO**

John showers and dresses quickly. He then checks his mobile for an anticipated call or text from a medical colleague. Nothing. He momentarily considers sending a text to Lestrade, then thinks better of it. Best not to get the man's hopes up. Besides, he has nothing to tell the DI – yet.

He comes out of their room, intent on finding Sherlock, and stops, his hand still on the door knob. The hallway is in semi-darkness, the length of worn Oriental carpeting a beacon in faded scarlet and gold. At the end of the hallway, under the window, is a pile of canvas tarps and various painting supplies, all neatly stacked. Sherlock mentioned the mansion is undergoing renovation. Apparently, Sherlock's former wing is next on the list.

Every door to every room is shut, except theirs. John stands in the open doorway - and stares.

Sherlock stands a dozen feet away, in profile to John, directly in front of one of the closed doors John walked by the night before. He is dressed in his ancient flannel pyjamas and grey tee. The thin cotton, so worn as to be nearly translucent, slides over the muscles in his arm as he slowly raises one hand toward the door panel.

John frowns. There is something  _off_  about Sherlock's demeanor. He keeps his voice low, so as not to startle his lover.

"Sherlock?"

The detective does not respond. Instead, he places his palm flat against the closed door, fingers splayed. At the sound of John's voice, Sherlock shudders slightly. But he does not turn.

"Sherlock?"

John walks up to him and tentatively places one hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He presses slightly and the detective finally turns his head toward him. Something in John's stomach twists, a flutter of trapped wings. The grey-green eyes are unfocused. Sherlock is not aware of him.

"Sherlock?"

Five seconds past the charm, and still Sherlock doesn't seem to recognise him. The beautiful face is slack and John can clearly see the fine sheen of sweat that covers the pale skin.

John's pulse pounds in his neck. He raises a steady hand, finds a point behind Sherlock's left ear and presses inward. Gently. Sherlock blinks – and then his eyes refocus. John blinks in relief.

"John?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"Of course, I'm okay." Sherlock glances at the door in front of him, then lowers his hand and takes a step back. He looks from John's worried gaze down the corridor and back to John.

"What are we doing out here in the corridor?"

"That was my question, Sherlock. I found you standing here. Alone."

"Standing here? Don't be ridiculous, John, what are you on about?"

John's eyes narrow. He cups Sherlock's cheek in his palm, then passes his hand over the detective's forehead. Sherlock just looks at him with bemused forebearance. He looks into the light eyes for any lingering sign of migraine. But the pupils appear normal.

"Well? Any sign of fever? And are you done playing doctor?"

"No. No fever. But bloody hell, Sherlock Holmes, you always find new ways of scaring me to death."

The gray-green eyes narrow.

"John, I think one of us needs to go back to bed and rest. I need a shower. Excuse me."

He pushes past John, who steps aside and watches as the detective goes back to their room. John glances at the closed door, then at Sherlock, who turns toward him before he enters their bedroom.

"John, since you are obviously dressed, go on down to breakfast. I'll – be there shortly."

"I'll wait for you."

John raps his knuckles on the closed door.

"What's behind this door?"

Sherlock just shakes his dark head. "Really, John. You've been here twice before. I gave you the grand tour your first visit." He ducks into their room, then pokes his head back out.

John has not moved. He still looks toward Sherlock. Expectant.

"If you have forgotten already, John, that was my room years ago. It's connected to the old nursery, the next door over. Mycroft's former room is on the other side of that. I believe Mummy is having the entire wing renovated soon. Probably why the doors are kept shut. To keep the dust out."

He goes into their room. The door shuts behind him.

John waits for a moment, then turns to look at the closed door. He reaches out and places his hand on the cool door knob. And twists.

It's locked.

So are the next two doors over.

**OooOooO**

His text chime sounds and Mycroft picks up his mobile from the seat next to him and glances at the screen. He reads the message, then nods. And thumbs a memorized phone number.

"John Watson. Mycroft?"

"John. Good morning. I hope I am not interrupting breakfast."

"Just waiting on Sherlock, actually."

"John, I am currently enroute to the manor house. And I have just received an interesting text."

John hears the shower running. He turns to glance out their window. The morning sun is bright with promise. Perhaps he and Sherlock can steal a few moments away from the manor house. Of course, it all depends on Mummy's schedule. John still intends to speak with her at his first opportunity.

"And?" he prompts.

"And, Doctor Watson, it seems that we have been working at cross purposes, upon Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade's behalf."

John turns away from the window and puts his concentration on Mycroft.

"This is about Greg's daughter."

"Yes, John. And I believe I have some heartening news."

John's eyes momentarily close, then reopen. Behind him, he hears it as Sherlock turns off the taps.

"Yes? We can all use some good news, Mycroft. I had a colleague checking into the bone marrow donor program –"

"Yes, John. And that is what my call entails. I will be there shortly. I am now approximately thirty minutes from the house."

The bathroom door opens and Sherlock comes out, dripping, wrapped in a towel. And nothing else.

He glances toward John, then begins to dress. At John's next words, he raises an eyebrow.

"All right, Mycroft. It can wait for thirty minutes, then."

"I believe so, John."

The two men hang up and John tosses his mobile onto the bed.

"What did my arse of a brother want, John?"

John turns, half expecting to see Sherlock standing behind him, nude. Instead, the detective perches on the edge of their bed and pulls on his socks. He already wears jeans, and a white cotton shirt.

John stares. It is so seldom he sees the detective in anything other than a suit that the sight of the long legs encased in jeans slightly stuns him.

"Lestra—" John clears his throat. Watches as Sherlock tugs on boots – boots! And then rises to his feet. He tries again. "Lestrade. Both Mycroft and I have people looking into the bone marrow donor program."

Sherlock nods. "And Mycroft has good news about that?"

"Apparently."

Sherlock yanks his cuffs down and finishes buttoning them, then crosses to the antique bureau and begins to pick up and deposit various items in the jeans pockets. Mobile. The small magnifying glass. Loose change – although what he intends to use it for around the estate, John cannot fathom. A pen and minuscule notepad. A small tape measure. A tiny compass. Bits of this and that. John watches, fascinated, as all the items disappear into the jeans pockets. What doesn't fit in the jeans pockets, Sherlock slips into the pockets of the short jacket.

The one item that he has never seen Sherlock carry on his person is a hair comb.  _Doesn't seem_   _to be much point, actually,_  John thinks _._

He crosses the room and stands in front of Sherlock, who looks down at him. John reaches up one hand and tucks a damp curl back from the pale face.

"Sherlock – earlier. What was all that in the corridor?"

The detective frowns. He places both hands on John's shoulders and gently pulls the soldier toward him. John goes willingly enough, but places both hands on the white cotton shirt to steady himself. It's incredibly easy to get lost in Sherlock Holmes. He looks up into the pale grey eyes.

"Sherlock? The corridor?"

"Don't know what you're talking about, John. Really, I think you need some breakfast." He bends to kiss his soldier's mouth, then straightens and smiles.

"Let's go down, shall we? You can eat and with any luck, everyone else has breakfasted and we can make good our escape."

"It's not that late, Sherlock. It's just coming up on 8:00. And you'll be eating, as well."

The detective frowns, then twists his wrist to glance at his watch.

"8:00? I was certain that it was later than that."

The tiniest of frowns touches John's face and he studies his love's countenance in the early morning light.

"Since when does Sherlock Holmes not know the time of day?" he asks gently.

Sherlock bends and plants another kiss on John's thin lips. "Since he has Captain John Watson in front of him, looking thoroughly edible in the early morning light, that's when."

He turns John around and shoves him toward their door.

"Come on. Before Mrs. Robinson gives your meal to the cat."

John obligingly walks down the corridor. And notes that when they pass the locked door to Sherlock's old room, the detective does not acknowledge it or hesitate. He just walks right on past it.

John frowns, his mind racing.

**OooOooO**

His text chime sounds – again – and Mycroft retrieves his phone. Anthea. He wonders why she doesn't just call him.

Then he sees the tiny image. He taps it – and is treated to a close-up of one slender hand.

It's Anthea's left hand. And a sparkling blue stone rests on the ring finger. He looks at the tiny photo until it closes of its own accord.

He nods, then thumbs her number and waits for her to pick up.

"Anthea. Good morning."

"It is now. About time he took care of business," he says gently.

Anthea / Lizabeth laughs. It's a warm laugh and Mycroft smiles at the obvious pleasure in her voice.

But the smile doesn't – quite – reach his eyes.

**OooOooO**

As empty as the manor seemed the night before, that is how full it seems to John now. Once he and Sherlock come down the stairs, people are everywhere.

"Good morning, Captain Watson. Good morning, Sir."

The young girl hurries by both of them, her arms full of magazines and newspapers. She heads down the main hall, toward the library.

John barely has time to say "Good morning," back before two workmen pass them by, to go up the stairs he and Sherlock just came down.

"Captain Watson, Sir. Mr. Holmes." Both men nod and hurry past, but John thinks one of them glances at him and Sherlock appraisingly.

"Good morning, Sir," a young woman, a bit older than the first, goes by both of them, glances once at John, and blushes a brilliant scarlet. She hurries up the stairs and at the top, turns right toward the East Wing.

Sherlock glances at John smugly. "Your reputation precedes you, _Captain_  Watson," he says smugly.

"It's the motorcycle, Sherlock. Women dig motorcycles," John jokes in an easy drawl. To tell the truth, he is a bit uncomfortable with the reactions he is collecting.

"Captain Watson. Sherlock. About time you two came down to eat. I was just sending – now where has that girl got to?"

Mrs. Robinson smiles at John and Sherlock and John smiles back. He notes that Sherlock remains silent during all of these acknowledgements. The Holmes housekeeper is the only member of the household staff he acknowledges.

"Mrs. Robinson, I need to speak with my mother," Sherlock begins.

Eugenia Robinson shakes her grey head and scoots both of them toward the breakfast room. "Your Mum's gone off to London. Left at the crack of dawn, this morning. Said to tell you and the Captain that she would return just after luncheon. Now get on with you. Everything's laid out and ready. I'll be in later to see how you're getting on."

What she does not add is Regina Holmes' emphasis that everything –  _"Everything, including meals"_ – be kept as casual as possible so as to keep John Watson comfortable in his surroundings. She smiles at the young Captain and leaves them both to it. So far, Mrs. Holmes' admonition seems to be working.

John and Sherlock watch her as she scurries past, intent on her duties. She walks briskly toward the kitchen. A young man comes up to her and has a hurried conversation. Mrs. Robinson nods and both of them walk off together. Both men watch her go, then glance at each other.

"This way, John," Sherlock murmurs. His tone of voice sounds relieved, John thinks. He follows Sherlock.

John shakes his head at his surroundings, as he and Sherlock make their way into the sunnier of the dining rooms. He saw all of this months back. But it's one thing to walk through room after amazing room with only your lover by your side, engaged in a running commentary, some of it snide, most of it humorous, regarding the Holmes family fortune, estate, staff, antecedents and family history, all the while giving you the grand tour. And yet quite another to see those same surroundings by the light of day – and fully staffed.

He glances around and notes a dark-skinned, dark-haired young woman who sits by herself at the very end of the long dining table. The woman glances up at them as they come in and smiles. Then she ducks her head and goes back to jotting down notes on a lined pad in front of her. John notes her plate is empty and pushed back to make room for a bulging file folder, the note pad, two pens and a mobile phone. No one else is seated. Even as he notes this, a young man bustles in, removes the offending plate, speaks quietly to the young woman, pours her more coffee, then bustles out again, taking the used plate with him. John shakes his head.

It's not until he sees and smells the buffet that he realises how hungry he is.

Sherlock glances around, then picks up a cup and saucer, pours himself hot tea and goes to sit at the other end of the table. He ignores the woman, who John guesses to be the same individual who has been texting them more or less constantly over the past few weeks.

He frowns at Sherlock's rude behaviour, then frowns again when he realizes the detective has not availed himself of food. John fills a china plate with bacon, fried eggs, toast and yes, beans, thinks further, adds sliced tomatoes, then plunks the plate down in front of Sherlock. The two men stare at each other.

John's eyes narrow and he stands there until Sherlock sighs and picks up a fork. Then he nods and goes back to fill a plate for himself. He ignores the sausages but adds a slice of ham to his plate. He tries not to even think of the seemingly huge amount of food or what happens to it all once the meal is over.

As he passes by, he slows and the woman glances up at him. She rises to her feet.

"Captain Watson?"

John stops, sets down his plate and cup and immediately holds out one hand. "John. Please. Captain Watson, no longer. And you are?"

"Deborah. Just – Deborah. Mrs. Holmes' assistant, temporarily. We've spoken several times over the phone."

They shake and she smiles a blinding smile at the doctor.

John nods at the lone figure at the other end. "That rather rude individual is my fiancée – Sherlock."

Deborah smiles gently. "I recognised both of you."

"Won't you join us?" John asks. Her eyes spark with intelligence - and humor. He smiles again at her, suddenly enchanted.

"Thank you, but I've already finished. We'll be seeing each other later today. I believe Mrs. Holmes is in London, but when she returns, we're all slated for a late afternoon meet. I'll see you then, Captain – Doctor Watson."

Deborah smiles again, takes up her file folder, her notes, pens, phone and her cup of coffee and leaves the room.

John watches her go, then brings his own filled plate over to sit with Sherlock.

The detective frowns at the food in front of him and continues to fiddle with his fork.

"Well, that was rude of you," John murmurs. He plunks down his cup of tea and seats himself.

The detective does not look up at him.

"Think so?"

"Know so." John takes one bite of egg, then lays his fork down.

"Okay, out with it. What has you in a strop?" But he thinks he knows.

"Really, John. Does anything have to be the matter? I'm just not very hungry, that's all."

"That's a lie. You haven't eaten a thing since yesterday morning. And unless I'm mistaken, hot tea has not yet been incorporated into one of the major food groups."

He studies the detective for a moment, then shakes his blonde head. "Sherlock," he says gently, "unless you want a repeat of last night's headache, you need to eat."

Sherlock frowns and pushes food around his plate for a moment.

There's a minute of silence while John attacks his eggs.

Then –

"I don't know if I can do this, John." Sherlock lifts his cup of tea and chokes down a mouthful.

John watches him in silence.

"How about we get through this first meal –"

"Second meal, John."

"I stand corrected. Second meal. And then go out and walk the grounds. Lots of changes I hear."

The detective glances up at John and John sees, actually sees his eyes for the first time since they came downstairs. He puts down his fork. And reaches one hand across the table. His sturdy fingers rub up and down the long fingers that currently drum gently on the tablecloth.

"Cordoa? Something wrong that you didn't tell me about?" A small fear shoots through John's stomach. He waits, all the while watching Sherlock's face.

"No, John. The news there was much better than I had anticipated."

Relieved, John picks up his cup and drinks his tea. He places the delicate cup back in its equally delicate saucer and takes the extended hand in his. He gently rubs up and down the cool skin with his thumb.

"Then what is it? It's not just seeing your Mum, Sherlock. There's something bothering you. And has been since yesterday. Before that, actually."

Sherlock nods but does not look at John again.

He clears his throat. "John. I – I haven't been exactly forthcoming with you about one particular aspect of this wedding."

" _It's coming out in a minute,"_  John thinks. And realizes he should just go ahead and tell his fiancee that he knows – or thinks he knows – what the matter is but before he can say anything –

"Gentlemen."

"Bloody hell," Sherlock whispers.

Mycroft stands in the door of the breakfast room.

**OooOooO**

Anthea hangs up from speaking with Mycroft Holmes. Then she opens her pc and brings up the interrogation report on the cab driver. The same driver who ferried the individual around London who seemed bent on shadowing Deborah's every movement.

She reads through his statement. And frowns. No joy. His description of his fare does not match anyone in her database. She cross-references. Still nothing.

According to the cab driver, he picked up the fare close to Whitehall Street, followed his directions to drive to a certain store in central London, where they watched as a young woman with two boxes in her hand came out, got into her own waiting cab, and drove off. His fare had asked him to then shadow the second cab holding the young woman in the back seat. This went on for two hours as she apparently ran errands around the city. At no time did the man speak, other than to instruct him to 'Don't lose them," and "For gods sakes, can't this thing go any faster?"

He dropped off his fare at nearly the same point he had picked him up, received a very generous tip, and drove off. And that was that.

Until two very determined government agents came knocking at his door.

Anthea commits every word to memory but decides not to bother Mycroft with it at the moment. After all, she has nothing of import to tell him.

She notates that she has read the interrogation report, then closes it and opens another.

After reading the two lone paragraphs, Anthea picks up her mobile. And calls Mycroft Holmes back.

**OooOooO**

"Sherlock. John."

The elder Holmes brother comes into the room, glances around, then goes to select food. He brings his plate, only half full, John notes, back to their table and sets it down, along with a cup of tea.

Sherlock sets down his fork. "Well, this is lovely and all, but I need some fresh air." All spoken in a tone of voice so utterly snide that it has John pause, tea cup half way to his mouth. Mycroft merely looks at his brother.

Sherlock stands and turns to leave, when John reaches out to tap his wrist with one warm finger. The detective looks down at his soldier and his eyes narrow. But he picks up a slice of toast, forks some scrambled eggs on top, slaps another toast slice on top of that and wraps the whole thing in his cloth napkin.

He nods at both men and leaves the breakfast room. John watches him go with a frown.

Mycroft picks up his cup of tea and regards his future brother-in-law over the rim.

"Well, that went well," he says.

His mobile rings.

"Excuse me, John." Mycroft rises to leave the room to take the call and John shakes his head and attacks his eggs while they are still warm.

He doesn't even glance up as the elder Holmes brother finishes his conversation, then comes back to regain his seat.

The two men busy themselves with eating and drinking. Finally, Mycroft puts down his cup, rests his chin on his folded hands, and regards John Watson over his long fingers.

"John, would you recognise the violin you purchased for Sherlock if you were to see it again?"

Whatever John Watson is expecting Mycroft to say, this isn't it. He puts down his fork, shoves his plate back and picks up his rapidly cooling tea. A young man comes in, hovers over the two men, refills their cups of tea, murmurs something, and goes back out again. John thanks him automatically and then realizes that he has no clue who this individual is. But can't be arsed to care at the moment.

He stares at Mycroft over the steaming Assam.

"Say that again," he asks.

Mycroft lowers his hands and takes up his own cup. "John, the violin that you presented to my brother as an anniversary gift is not the same violin you purchased for him one week earlier. I merely asked if you would recognise the instrument you originally purchased for Sherlock, were you to see it again."

John stares at his brother-in-law as if Mycroft Holmes has lost his mind.

"You're telling me that the violin I bought for Sherlock is not the one that I gave him," John repeats slowly.

"Exactly."

John looks at Mycroft, glances back at his cup of tea, then sets it carefully in its saucer. He places both hands on the table.

"All right, Mycroft. To answer your question, I might recognise the violin I purchased. Not entirely certain. But I do remember a scratch, a very slight one, on the fingerboard."

He regards the elder Holmes brother for a moment. "Assuming you are correct, suppose you tell me where the violin came from that I did give to your brother."

Mycroft Holmes smiles. "That part's easy, John. I've just received confirmation that the serial number inside that particular instrument exactly matches the serial number of a violin that once belonged to the Holmes family estate in France."

"France," John says.

Mycroft nods. "Yes. The instrument in question was once owned by our grand-oncle. How it came to be in your possession – and by default – Sherlock's – is a most interesting question, indeed. One that both Sherlock and I would like to understand."

"Your grand – you mean your father's brother." John thinks a moment, then narrows his eyes. "And the initials that were on the card – VMH ?"

Mycroft nods again. "They stand for Victor Mycroft Holmes. Our father's older brother. Deceased. Over twenty years ago, as a matter of fact. My grand-oncle passed away when Sherlock was a young teen."

Mycroft automatically speaks 'grand-oncle' with an impeccable French accent. John doubts if he even knows he's doing it. He continues to stare at Sherlock's older brother. Finally, he stirs and speaks.

"How do you know that the serial number of the violin I originally purchased doesn't match the serial number of the one I gave Sherlock? How do you know this?"

Mycroft replies patiently, "Because, John, that violin is still in the shop in Basingstoke. It was never packed and shipped to you. In fact, your original purchase price was promptly refunded to your card. Which you would have noticed, doubtless, if you and Sherlock hadn't been quite so busy these past two days. At the very least, you would have noted it the next time you thought to check your bank account balance."

Mycroft leans back in his chair and regards John's rather incredulous expression.

"Which begs the interesting questions, what was it doing in the possession of a rather ordinary second-hand music shop in Basingstoke? How did the young man who sold it to you come into possession of it? If, indeed, he was the one who actually shipped it to you. That fact remains to be ascertained. Why was it shipped to you, John? And therefore, to Sherlock? And how is it now residing at 221B Baker Street?"

**OooOooO**

Deborah glances up as Sherlock Holmes strides by her, his long legs eating up the carpet in the main hallway. She hesitates, then calls to him. "Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock stops. He stares ahead of him at the hall that leads to the kitchen, his actual destination, then grimaces. He puts a resigned expression on his face and turns toward her, as she walks up to him.

"Mr. Holmes? I need to mention something to you that your mother and I noted a few weeks back. Something you might have forgotten."

Sherlock merely lifts an inquisitive brow. He does not respond but waits for her to continue.

But Deborah has stared down more exasperating individuals than Sherlock – although she can't quite remember when. She takes a breath and leaps into the fray.

"Rings," she says in her quiet voice.

"Rings," the detective repeats.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, rings."

Sherlock frowns down at her. He notes her appearance, her slight accent, cultured speech patterns, the color of her eyes, hair, skin, her obviously well-designed, yet understated clothing, beautifully manicured nails, posture, the tilt of her eyebrows and the tilt of her nose, and automatically deduces her down to her fingertips. Out loud all he says is, "I just thought that we would –"

"Mr. Holmes, there is no way on this earth that your mother is going to allow the two of you to be married using Captain Watson's dog tags."

"You knew about those, then." It is not a question.

"Your brother informed me."

"Ah. Right."

He regards the dark-eyed young woman in front of him with interest.

"What do you recommend we do about that?"

"You've got a bit less than one month before the wedding, Mr. Holmes I suggest you and Captain Watson decide on rings."

Sherlock nods. "I think we can do that."

"Good. Then if that's settled, can I count on your cooperation this afternoon, once your mother returns?"

Sherlock stares at her. He pivots on his heels and heads for the kitchen.

Deborah watches him go. She makes a mental note that the hazard pay she requested of Anthea really needs to go to John Watson. She turns and goes to the library to continue her notes. At least it's quiet in there. Peaceful.

Holmes-less.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft reads something off his phone, writes two names down on a pad, then rips off the top sheet and hands it to John.

John takes it, reads the names, and nods. "Matthews, definitely," he says. He rereads the second name. "I've never heard of Ridgeson, but my specialty is emergency medicine, not oncology." He glances up at Mycroft, who watches him with interest. "Or at least it was."

John folds the single sheet of paper, folds it again, then slides it into a pocket of his jeans. He looks at Mycroft.

"Are you going to call Greg?"

"Someone should," Mycroft says easily.

John nods. "Then make it yourself, Mycroft. And the sooner the better. Time is of the –"

"Quite." Mycroft picks up his tea cup.

**OooOooO**

John excuses himself while Mycroft places his call to Lestrade, then stops in the outer hall. Finally, he makes his way to the kitchen. He feels more at home there and perhaps someone knows where Sherlock went.

Someone does. The same young man who refilled their tea, gestures toward the kitchen door which leads into the garden.

"Mr. Holmes stopped here for a moment, then I believe he walked toward the stables, Captain Watson."

John starts to correct him, thinks better of it, and just nods his thanks. He leaves through the kitchen door. Two people watch him go. And sigh.

Outside the air is still cool and John lengthens his stride. He really needs to add regular exercise back to his schedule, now that he's feeling better. He pauses outside the garden gate, glances toward the far lawns and streams, then turns toward the stables.

As he walks, he thinks over the odd incident in the corridor earlier that morning and realises he failed to ask Mycroft about the locked doors. Why locked? Why keep rooms due to be renovated locked at all? And one of them the former nursery?

 _Unless_ – John's facile mind supplies the most obvious answer.  _Unless they were only locked because it was known that both he - and Sherlock - would be staying in that wing. And someone – Regina? – wished to keep either or both of them out of those rooms._

Which scenario strikes John as preposterous.  _"You're seeing mysteries, boyo, where none_   _exist."_   _Guilt by association_ , John thinks.

John walks up to the large oak which marks the first of the outer fencing - and stops dead in his tracks. He is now less than 300 yards from the actual stables. And 100 yards from the dirt track. And from Sherlock. Who stands in the bright morning sun, conversing with a diminutive gentlemen with a shock of near white hair.

And a horse.

" _Let us not forget the horse,"_  John thinks incredulously. Although he is reasonably certain the creature has not joined in the conversation, which carries in the clear morning air.

"Thought first she were favorin' that fetlock, but t'were far off in bright sun. Seems sound enough."

"Best be certain. Shove over, Daphne. There's a girl."

Sherlock bends and runs one slim hand over the area in question. The creature – Daphne - obligingly lifts its foot and lets the detective palpate her ankle area. He pats it once, then sets it back down. Both men watch as the horse paws once at the ground, then turns her head to nudge at the white-haired man.

"Oh, get on w' ye." He shakes his white hair.

Sherlock reaches for the reins and pulls the animal toward him. "She's certainly not favoring it now and no sign of swelling. She seems raring to go. Have a look, Mr. Edwards."

"Aye." Edwards squats down, lifts the same foot and runs a practiced hand up and down.

He, too, pats the leg, then lets the animal put his weight on it. He remains bent over, and watches as the creature shifts its weight slightly, as if to bely his suspicions of injury.

"Right as rain, Mr. Sherlock. Trick o' the light, then."

John stares as the world's only consulting detective stands a few dozen yards away from him, and holds the reins of a magnificent and utterly terrifying beast, conversing about fetlocks and equine injuries as if he were to the manor born.

" _Well, he was,_ " John reminds himself, suddenly feeling very plebian and rustic.

The breeze insinuates itself through Sherlock's dark curls and tumbles them around his love's face. John watches, as his heart rate increases.

And by the way, where did that white cotton shirt and worn blue jeans come from? Hell, he watched Sherlock dress this morning, but was only marginally startled to see the man in jeans. He thought he knew every article of clothing in Sherlock's wardrobe, but this is the first time he's seen Sherlock Holmes in a plain ordinary pair of blue jeans and boots. Jeans that are worn across the knees, loose in some places and nicely tight across that magnificent arse and the hell of it is, John is now in pain in his  _own_ jeans.

No way he can walk up to the two men now, not in this obvious discomfiture.

At least the white shirt is like all of Sherlock's other shirts, buttoned at the sleeves. If it had those stupid flowing wrist things, John didn't think he would survive it.

As if on cue, Sherlock reaches out with one hand and idly begins to roll up a sleeve, then shifts the reins to his other hand, while he rolls up the second sleeve. His pale wrists are just visible. John cannot see the fading red marks left by the barbed wire. He wonders if Mr. Edward notices them. If he does, the older man says nothing.

The Horse, antsy, starts to pull away but Sherlock automatically puts up his other hand and soothes it by rubbing up and down the long velvet nose. The horse nuzzles at Sherlock's back pocket and he turns to regard it and laughs. A light-hearted sound that goes straight through John's heart.

"All right, hold on."

Sherlock digs something out of the pocket of his jeans. John can't tell what it is. A slice of carrot? Apple? And holds it out, flat on his palm. The rather alarming creature nuzzles up to Sherlock's palm and proceeds to eat right out of his hand.

John, having been in the similar situation before - without the carrot - feels his mouth go dry.

He moves to take advantage of the shade cast by the lone oak, which stands by the outer fence. He stands slightly behind the trunk in order to hide his confusion and utter disbelief at what he has just seen – as well as the beginnings of a rather impressive erection.

If the love of his life is going to spend this entire weekend looking like something out of a photo shoot for  _Pride and Prejudice,_  well, John's already fragile ego is not going to survive.

" _Just so long as it's not Wuthering Heights,"_  he thinks. " _That would put me in the role of who –_   _Cathy?"_

John shudders. What is it in the air out here that has his thoughts taking such literary and lusty turns. It's not  _that_  far from Baker Street. Is it? For fucks sake, this is the countryside. And Sherlock may know his way around a horse but there's no way in hell he knows how to actually ride one of the things. Correct?

As he watches the tableau in front of him, John experiences a feeling of unreality, as if he's been transported to – well, anyplace but where he stands. The moors of north Wales, perhaps. But that's ridiculous, if this is the moors, there should be an impressive thunderstorm brewing on the horizon.

A breeze springs up and John turns his head to view the faint outline of purple thunderclouds far in the distance.  _Right. There it is, then._  Rain will be on them before the night is out. Perhaps before then. In the meantime, the skies overhead remain clear and blue.

At the slight breeze, the horse shies and John momentarily expects it to bolt. It never gets the chance. Sherlock yanks hard on the reins in his hands, and talks soothingly to the creature, while Mr. Edwards rises to his feet, dusts his hands off and nods.

"She's looking good, then."

The gray-haired man looks at the youngest Holmes son with an amused glance. "Want to take her out for a bit?"

Sherlock laughs. "And break my neck? It's been too many years as a city dweller for me, I'm afraid, Mr. Edwards."

"Suit yoursel' then. But you canna convince me you've gone and lost your seat. I dinna believe it."

Apparently unaware that John stands a hundred yards behind them, Sherlock grins.

"Well then, let's test that hypothesis, shall we?

He turns slightly toward the horse and the breeze comes out of nowhere again to play in the curls on Sherlock's head. John groans. And the hell of it is, it's entirely unconscious. Sherlock has no frigging idea what he is doing to John Watson's heart.

Shite.

_Any moment, he's going to get a leg over and mount the stupid horse - and dear Mary, Mother of Heaven, he just did._

The detective tugs on the reins, pulls Daphne around to his near side – and mounts in one smooth motion.

"Just to the stall, then," he says drily.

"Aye," Edwards replies. John shuts his eyes. Then reopens them in sheer disbelief.

Sherlock can ride. Sherlock –  _John's often socially clueless_ ,  _Mr. Taxi Cab_ , " _I can't make a_   _decent cup of tea" Sherlock_  - can ride a bloody horse.

And with that thought foremost in his head, Mr. Edwards turns slightly and sees John standing by the oak. Both men regard each other for a moment. Then Edwards jerks his head slightly, as if to tell John to come along.

John nods and moves to the gate as Sherlock pulls back slightly on the reins, tilts his ankles and turns the beast toward the paddock. He continues to speak with Edwards, who turns his back on John and walks alongside for a few yards.

Edwards says something that John doesn't catch, and Sherlock nods and kicks his heels into the glossy side. And the horse takes off.

Runs? Cantors? Trots? John shakes his head at his own ignorance of all things "horse."

" _So all of that bloody talk about the beasts being dangerous on both ends and crafty in the middle was just talk. Well, of course it was."_

John walks up to Mr. Edwards, who stands, his back to John, and waits for him, his hands in the pockets of his ancient trousers. For once, John thinks, here is another adult male actually shorter than he is. He thinks he and Mr. Edwards might get along just fine.

"Still has a fine seat, Mr. Sherlock. But nought compared to Mr. Mycroft." Startled, John turns to the older man, then holds out his hand.

"John Watson," he says.

"Aye. Thought it might be." Edwards shakes hands, then gestures to the stables. "Get on w'ye then. He'll be waitin'."

John looks from Edwards to the stables. He nods his thanks and starts walking. If he's going to be put in the role of Cathy, then bloody hell, someone has to keep an eye on Heathcliff.

**OooOooO**

John feels rather than hears the text chime. His phone, muted, currently resides in the left front pocket of his jeans but he can't be arsed to fish it out.

His bright head lies in Sherlock's lap. The detective sits on the deep green grass, his back against one of the broader of the oak trees. His soldier's head nestles nicely in the well formed by his drawn-up legs and his flat stomach. His left hand alternately rubs back and forth over the left shoulder of John's tee shirt or moves to caress John's neck and jaw. The long fingers of his right hand riffle through the white-blonde silk on John's head, then move to trace the dark blonde eyebrows.

John has removed both his boots and socks, and his legs are stretched out in front of him, ankles crossed. Sherlock's gaze occasionally leaves John's face to roam over the tight angles and planes of his lover's body, currently displayed to advantage by the worn jeans and the tight black tee.

"How many of these do you own?" Sherlock muses aloud, as his left forefinger insinuates itself between the collar of the tee and John's bare skin. He gently rubs over the thick scar tissue under his fingers. John's skin is warm from the sun and Sherlock feels his groin tighten.

John shifts slightly; he pulls up one leg and his bare toes dig into the grass.

"Are you kidding? After your  _enthusiastic_  reaction to the first? I buy them by the gross lot. All of them one size too small, of course."

"Of course," Sherlock says.

"And extra stretchy," John says. "Stretchiness is a given."

"Goes without saying."

A second text chime sounds, this time from Sherlock's mobile. He idly picks the phone up where it lies on the grass next to him and glances at the screen.

"That annoying individual, again," he murmurs. He drops the phone back on the grass without answering the text and bends to brush a kiss along John's hairline.

"Which one?" John asks. His eyes are closed but at the brush of lips across his forehead, he opens them to encounter Sherlock's crystalline gaze.

"Valid point," Sherlock agrees. His lips nuzzle along John's forehead, across each blonde eyebrow, then he bends farther and plants a kiss – upside down – on the tip of his soldier's nose. John's eyes nearly cross at the close proximity of the amazing lips.

"You look intriguing upside down," John says.

"Fallacy, John. I am, at the moment, right-side up. You are the one who is currently at an angle. A right angle, to be exact."

"Oh." John shuts his eyes again. His right hand brushes back and forth along the tops of the velvety grass. His left lies on his stomach, his fingers curled.

Sherlock notes no sign of a tremor in the left hand and this small fact is enough to put a tiny line between his pale eyes. Stress. Even lying here in the summer sun, under a cloud-rimmed blue sky, John is under stress.

Or, more likely, on alert. And his soldier's seemingly languid pose is just that – a pose.

"Sooner or later, they'll send someone to fetch us." Sherlock shifts marginally and his fingers brush through the bright fringe, then down to feather along John's right cheek.

"Hmmm." John sighs and he tilts his head slightly as Sherlock's fingers drift down his cheek, to his neck and beyond. "Probably another annoying person. In your words, there appears to be a surfeit of them at the house this weekend."

Sherlock leaves off caressing John and leans his dark head back against the tree trunk. He looks at the sky overhead. The cool breeze from earlier has turned warmer. And heavier. He can – nearly – smell rain.

"The sooner we get this wedding planning nonsense out of the way—"

"The sooner we can go home," John finishes. Both men have their eyes closed.

John's mobile tingles in his pocket.

"They're calling now."

"Obvious." The detective's voice is a velvet drawl. He moves ever so slightly in order to pull John more closely into his embrace. His soldier willingly shifts his position.

"You know, John, that if they wait much longer to send the aforementioned 'annoying' individual, said person just might get more of a reception than they expected."

"Hmmm?"

"It can hardly have escaped your attention, my dear Captain Watson, that the formerly soft surface you are lying on has become –"

"Bumpy? Hard? Wooden?" come the amused tones.

"Hmm. I was going to say that it is obviously –"

"Strained? Heaving? Throbbing?"

"John. Please. I have vowed  _not_  to throb. I do not throb. I have never throbbed and I shall never, ever –"

"Beat? Pulsate? Pound?"

Sherlock bends his dark head and one of the curls brush against John's closed eyes.

The whisper comes as a gentle hum, a caress softer than the summer breeze that blows over John's face.

"Je vous adore. Mon l'un, mon seul amour."

John's left hand clenches around Sherlock's left hand where it has wandered over his chest. He tugs his lover's hand to him and tightens his grip. His voice deepens to a husky tone.

"Damn it, Tish, that's French."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow. "Another obscure cultural reference, John?"

John sighs and turns his head to rub his cheek against the – article – in question. "Never mind, Sherlock. It just means I find you sexy hot when you speak French."

"How is that different from the 'sexy hot' when I speak Italian?"

"It's a different type of sexy hot," John murmurs.

"If you say so, John."

Not for the first time, John thinks that in Sherlock's mouth, his given name sounds exotic. Warm. Anything but bland.

John's dark blue eyes open and he looks upward into the pale green orbs above him.

"Hello," he whispers.

"Hello yourself," Sherlock whispers back.

His dark head lifts. "And hello to you, you intruding arse."

"Gentlemen."

Mycroft Holmes walks into the small copse and stands, his hands on his hips.

"Really, Sherlock? Mummy's assistant has been attempting –"

"Female. 30ish? Brown of eyes, hair and skin? Product of a West Indies mother, who is an educator and published author, and Japanese father, a diplomat, if I'm correct. Chooses to go by the soubriquet of Deborah – obviously first name of a cherished female relative. Not mother, so - Grandmother or favorite Aunt?  _That_  assistant?"

"Fine. When you're done showing off, I might point out that the young woman in question is my assistant's assistant. Hence, in my employee, Sherlock. And worthy of respect."

John sighs and pulls himself to a sitting position. He looks around for his socks and boots. He tosses his question over his shoulder. "Did you know he was here?"

"No, John, not until the  _gentleman in question_  came upon us."

Mycroft moves closer and nudges one of John's boots toward him. The soldier nods his thanks and yanks on the boot, then stands in one fluid motion. Bits of grass go flying.

Sherlock watches John for a moment, then comes to his feet and brushes one long hand over the back of John's shirt. He picks out an errant blade of grass from his love's hair, then rather possessively leaves his hand on John's shoulder.

After all, this is Mycroft here and it has not failed to escape Sherlock's attention, that his brother once fancied John. Or so he believes.

He's never tested the hypothesis and certainly does not intend to do so now. Besides, such a test would necessarily be of a potentially upsetting nature. And any attempt to play on his brother's jealousy, valid or not, is just plain tawdry.

 _And John wouldn't like it. There is that_.

"Do not tell me you actually walked here, brother mine. It's well over a quarter mile from the house. Or have you embarked on a new exercise regime that I was as yet unaware –"

"If you continue on that course, Sherlock, you will necessarily end your sentence with a preposition. It might upset the horses."

"Aw."

As if on cue, Mr. Edwards walks into the clearing, holding the bridle of Daphne – and one other horse. A two-year-old bay roan that Sherlock has yet to meet. His mouth twists.

"Again. I would have heard you ride –"

"Oh for heavens sake, Sherlock! We were walking the horses when Deborah texted. We are expected in the main parlor for an update on the arrangements. I was asked to fetch you and John."

"Ay, Mister Sherlock, and here's a new 'un, a young lady, to make your acquaintance."

Sherlock obligingly walks up and tilts his head at the pretty bay.

This is the first time John has seen a – nearly – pink horse. He stares at it with appreciation.

"Goldie. She's your Mum's new fav'rite."

Sherlock nods at Mr. Edwards. "Very nice. Although the name is a bit misleading. Come along, John."

John nods at Mr. Edwards, then at Mycroft, and follows Sherlock out into the open air. He, too, smells rain.

John turns to Sherlock and grins. "So …  _Mister_ Sherlock … are you ready to go to this meeting?"

Sherlock reaches up and gently cuffs John on the side of the head. "Yes, Slave Watson, ready when you are."

The two men walk away from Mycroft and Edwards, and head for the house. As they walk, they continue a conversation begun weeks earlier – and carried on whenever they have the inclination.

"Slave Watson? Really? I was slave Watson three nights ago. I believe it's my turn to be—"

"Really, John. Whose pirate ship is it, anyway? If it makes you feel better, you can be bos'un."

"It's First Mate or nothing."

"There's no pleasing you, is there? I might point out that as my personal slave Watson, you have certain – privileges – that we have yet to discuss."

"Are these privileges of a sexual nature?"

"Could be, slave Watson. Could be."

"Please, Sherlock, not in front of the livestock."

"You mean Mycroft?"

The two men walk off, still gently arguing. Mycroft sighs and pulls Daphne to him by the reins.

Mr. Edwards just looks at the elder Holmes brother and shakes his head.

Mycroft mounts Daphne and waits for Mr. Edwards to mount Goldie. They trot off toward the stables. The two horses and their riders pass Sherlock and John, who totally ignore both of them.

**OooOooO**

The men enter the house and John takes the steps two at a time in order to grab the first shower and change.

Thirty minutes later, John and Sherlock are met at the bottom of the stairs by Deborah, who smiles at them. "This way, Gentlemen." She walks down the hallway toward the main dining room.

When John enters the dining room, he notes the table is set for lunch, but there is something odd about the seating. Both ends of the table have been kept clear, and the place settings have been kept to the middle section alone. He sees a neat pile of file folders at one end. He sighs. This is going to be a very long afternoon.

Sherlock glances at the table and then puts his hand on John's lower back to guide him to a seat.

"Sherlock. John. Good afternoon."

John turns. Regina Holmes stands behind them.

**OooOooO**

"Whatever John wants."

Regina puts down her pen, picks up her water glass, and observes her son over the rim.

John observes her. Sometime in the morning, apparently in London, Regina's dark hair has been considerably lightened. Her natural streaks of white and grey have been all but blended in. John thinks she looks much more formidable now.

Accordingly, he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back a bit. He keeps his dark eyes on his mother-in-law and notes that she looks him over appraisingly, as well.

_Yes, a very long afternoon indeed._

Sherlock could give a rat's arse. He taps on the folder in front of him with a pen, shifts his feet, then finally pushes his chair back in order to cross his long legs at the ankle.

He regards his mother curiously. But says nothing.

"Son, so far we have covered just about all aspects of the wedding ceremony itself, with two exceptions. It is not helpful at all if you keep insisting that John's decisions – and only John's decisions – are what count here."

"Valid point, Mother. And may I make one more?"

She sighs and puts down her glass. "Please do."

"Boring. This entire procedure is a shocking waste of our time. Nothing has gone on here that requires my or John's attendance or attention. However, in the interest of being amenable –"

Here John turns his dark blue eyes on his paramour, as Regina turns her crystalline grey gaze on her son – both of them in shocked silence.

Sherlock nods to the table. "I will concede that any questions of protocol or procedure that arise necessarily be governed by –"

"Whatever John wants," his mother intones.

Sherlock lifts his curly head to regard the Holmes matron.

"Exactly," he drawls.

"Sherlock –" John begins to speak in a hushed tone. "I think what your Mum – your mother wants here is—"

"What my mother wants and what she is going to get may be diametric opposites, John."

He glances across the table to the place setting that still sits there, unused.

"Where is my arse of a brother?"

"Your brother Mycroft does not need to be present at this point, Sherlock. Although it would be nice if you would, once and for all, acknowledge that he is to serve as your best man."

Sherlock guffaws. John has heard this expression his entire life but has not understood it until now. He glances sideways at Sherlock, then shrugs his shoulders. John intends to ask Greg Lestrade to stand up with him, if the DI has had better news by the time the wedding rolls around. He notes this on a sheet of paper and slides it across to Deborah, who takes the page, read it, nods once and makes a note on her pad.

The meal and meeting do not start out on a firm footing, as Regina requests that John and Sherlock sit opposite each other. They decline and sit together.

Deborah then asks that John give her a list of his comrades in arms, as she put it, who he wishes to invite to the wedding.

John declines, after mentioning Bill Murray, if the latter is still alive, which he doubts as Murray has always been, as John puts it, "a right horse's arse when it comes to his personal safety." After making certain his sister, Harriet, is on the attendee list, as well as Mike Stamford, he shows no further interest in who shows up to cheer him on. He briefly thinks of Sally Donovan and becomes very quiet indeed.

Regina then requests if Sherlock and John wish to write their own vows.

Both men look at each other, raise two sets of incredulous eyebrows – and decline.

John's refusal comes in the form of an uttered 'For fucks sake' and Sherlock's in a lazy drawl – 'I Sherlock take thee, John. There. End of vows. Everyone happy?"

Deborah makes a note on her pad and sighs.

Regina clears her throat, looks at her youngest son, then comes to a decision. She sits up a bit straighter.

"Sherlock, I do believe it is time for you to, let us say, fill John in on a few things?"

Sherlock raises his crystalline eyes to his mother and proceeds to engage in a staring contest. John thinks it's a toss-up as to who wins. Finally, he turns his head to regard John.

"John, I need to speak with you in the hallway."

John looks from Sherlock to his future Mum-in-law and back to Sherlock. And just nods.

"All right."

"Excuse us, Mother." Sherlock does not acknowledge Deborah by name but just pushes his chair back and he and John leave the room.

The two women look at each other and Deborah notes what seems to be the beginning of a headache as Regina Holmes' forehead is creased and her pupils dilated. She fishes out two paracetamol and hands them over to Sherlock's Mum, who takes them, nods her thanks and reaches for her water glass.

In the outer hallway, Sherlock plunges his fists in the pockets of his short jacket, which he has not removed, even in the house, and regards his soldier.

John crosses his arms over his chest – and just waits. He has to fight to keep a grin off his face, but manages to do so.

"John –"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The detective clears his throat. "John – here's the thing."

"Okay."

"John – damn it. This shouldn't be so hard."

"Just say it, Sherlock."

The detective takes a breath. His fists clench and unclench. He keeps his eyes on his soldier's open face.

"You're not going to like it."

"I already don't like it, Sherlock, because whatever it is, seems to bother you so much."

"John - I'm a ruddy Viscount."

"Yes, Sherlock, I know."

Dead silence.

"You knew? How? No, I mean – you knew that marrying me meant marrying into –

"A title? Yes, Sherlock. I've known for some time. You chose to say nothing, so I just let it go as well."

More silence.

John sighs and lets his arms fall to his side.

"For fucks sake, Sherlock. I'm still capable of using Google. What part of "Right Honorable Holmes" did you not think I would get?"

"John, I –"

"I assumed you renounced the title or whatever you do, and if not, then that's fine, too, as I have nothing whatsoever to do with this and have –"

"Lord."

"What?"

"You, John. Would become a Lord by marriage to me. At least, I assume so since the alternative would be 'Lady.'

"You're fucking kidding me?"

"No, John. I am in earnest."

"Well – that's just bulls- . Well, Shite."

John Watson's dark blue eyes widen and he brings one hand to his pursed lips, as he thinks over this new information.

Sherlock just waits.

After a moment, John nods. "All right then. Here's the deal."

Sherlock nods.

"We forget all that."

The detective cocks his head and regards his soldier. "Excuse me?"

"I mean it, Sherlock. We just plain forget all this Viscount and Lord nonsense. And go on with the wedding."

"But, John, the invitations –"

John sighs and takes a set toward his lover. He places one warm hand on Sherlock's wrist. And looks up into the amazing eyes.

"Look, Sherlock, I've been expecting this for some time. I never brought it up because – as I said – you seemed to want to ignore it, as well. Neither of us has any say over what went out in those invitations, and I understand they have all been mailed. So what say we both continue to ignore it and just get on with it?"

Sherlock looks down into the dark eyes … and nods. A slow grin spreads over his face.

"This will undoubtedly make Mummy furious."

"Don't know about that, Love, but it seems to me it's your deal. Not hers."

Sherlock, who never tires of John's endearments, flushes, then reaches to brush through John's bright fringe. "John, you really have  _not_ been paying attention, have you?"

His soldier shakes his head. "Sherlock, it's your mother who hasn't been paying attention. I have some inkling of what this is going to do to your Mum. And I plain don't give a flying fuck. We go on just as we always have. If you're willing to forget this Viscount nonsense, so am I. Until it becomes relevant."

Sherlock repeats. "Relevant."

John nods his head again. "Until you need to pull rank for – I don't know, a case? Or last minute dinner reservations. Or get a really good deal on a used car or something. But until then, life just goes on."

"A used car? John, might I point out that we take taxi cabs everywhere in London and except for the occasional foray into the countryside, at which time my arse of a brother –"

"For fucks sake, Sherlock, I was joking! Just let it go. The title, what you are called and what I will be called, let it all go. Until we have to actually acknowledge it or do something about it, okay?"

Sherlock regards the love of his life and then pulls John toward him with two large hands on each shoulder of the soft jumper.

_Brown and chocolate and Burnt umber. John should wear these colors more often, to show off his hair. In addition to ocean blues and greens, of course. To bring out his eyes._

"Very well. We let it all go and go on as before. Works for me."

He bends his head and kisses John on the lips. John responds with enthusiasm and Sherlock feels a tiny knot that had hitherto taken up residence in his stomach unknot - and dissolve. He breathes easier.

His soldier whispers into Sherlock's open mouth. "Damn straight."

The detective sighs, plants one more kiss on the thin lips, then straightens. He looks toward the closed door.

"John Watson. Love of my life. I have been dreading this little conversation for a while, but you have just glossed over any inconvenience this blasted title might have held. I believe everyone's waiting on us."

In answer, John encircles Sherlock's waist, digs his hands into the soft shirt and pulls the lanky body toward his own. He tilts his head back and ever so slightly rises on the balls of his booted feet.

"They've waited this freaking long, they can bloody well wait another damned minute. Or five."

Sherlock grins.

**OooOooO**

Deborah closes her file folder, makes a last notation on her pad and lays her Biro down in front of her. She and Regina glance at each other – and nod.

"Excellent. John." Sherlock pushes his chair back, nods at his mother, finally acknowledges Deborah's presence, and waits for John to come to his feet. Which John does, slowly.

He and Regina regard each other.

John smiles grimly. "Regina, may I speak with you a moment? Not here, of course."

Regina Holmes inclines her head, as if she has been expecting this, and turns to Deborah. "Thank you, my dear. I think we made real progress here."

Deborah smiles. "We didn't discuss the rehearsal dinner."

"We can do that tonight, Deborah. If you would excuse me, I believe Captain Watson and I have something to discuss – in the library."

John places one warm hand on Sherlock's wrist. And then glances up into the pale eyes now a steady grey with no hint of green or blue.

The detective frowns. He looks from John to his mother. Then just turns and leaves the dining area. John does not watch him leave.

John waits courteously by the door as Regina precedes him out of the room, then follows her to the library.

Sherlock takes the curving steps two at a time, heading toward their room. His head has begun to pound.

In the hallway, he hesitates only slightly as he passes his old room. He frowns at the closed door, lifts one hand to the knob, then lowers it without attempting to enter the room.

In their bedroom, Sherlock glances around, then runs one hand through his dark curls. He goes to the window to glance out at the afternoon, which is rapidly darkening.

Finally, he kicks off his shoes, tears through the buttons on his shirt, dumps it on the floor, steps out of the trousers, and goes to shower - his third of the day.

Under the steaming water, he attempts to wash away all things Holmes.

He is not successful.

**OooOooO**

"I'm not entirely certain that any of this is your business, John."

John crosses his arms over his chest and regards her.

"Then you haven't been paying attention, Regina."

"Please, John. You must understand that what's done, is done."

"I'm not an idiot, Regina, whatever you and Mycroft may think. Sherlock was fifteen when this occurred. And yes, what is done is done. However – "

"However, my oldest son and I both felt – at the time - that in the interests of what was best for Sherlock –"

"No. No. Damn it, you're going to shut the hell up and let me finish. It's far too late to undo what you did. But holy hell, you can still do something about all of this."

John waves his hand around the library, indicates the Holmes manor, and by default, Regina and Mycroft Holmes.

"I fail to see how, John."

"You would, wouldn't you? What  _is_  it with the Holmes family?"

Regina does not answer him, but stands to go to one of the windows. She looks out at an increasingly dark sky.

" _Jesus, her very back is aggrieved. Now I know where Sherlock gets it."_

He comes to stand a few feet behind her.

"Dear God, Regina. You can talk with him. Just talk with your youngest son. And please note I said 'with' and not 'to.' It's not too late to re-establish some sort of bond. Do you think because his shoe size is larger that he doesn't still need you? I don't know how late it is for Sherlock and Mycroft to have anything other than – what they have - but damn it, you're his Mum."

He watches as her back stiffens in her cream-colored linen jacket. For the first time, John realizes he has never seen Regina Holmes wear anything other than trouser suits. He wonders if that means something or if it's another indication of how sartorially clueless John Watson is.

He comes to a decision – takes a deep breath – and steps off the cliff.

"Regina?"

At his softer tone of voice, she turns from the window to face him. Her beautiful face is nearly bloodless. John puts out one warm hand and touches her on the wrist. She does not pull away from him.

"Regina - do you know the one thing about Sherlock that struck me when we - became a couple?"

"I really do not require the details of your –"

"Shut it. I don't intend to betray any confidences here today."

John withdraws his hand and begins to pace – up and down the dark blue and gold Oriental carpeting. She watches him as he paces. Finally, he comes to a stop in front of her and spreads his hands.

"Jesus, Regina, most of our time together is spent in my holding on to Sherlock. I would anyway. I want to. He's mine. Make no mistake about it. No one and nothing is going to take him away from me."

Her grey eyes widen but she says nothing.

John Watson stands in front of her and looks into the pale grey eyes she passed on to her younger son.

"When we became – intimate - my work was cut out for me, Regina. The man was – and is - starved for simple, human affection."

John swipes one hand through his bright hair, aggravated – and not a bit exhausted.

His voice drops. "Holy hell, Regina, without betraying Sherlock's trust in our more private moments, you must know that two thirds of the time we are together is spent in my holding on to that man. My arms wrapped around Sherlock. And make no mistake about it – there's no place on earth I would rather be."

Her eyes widen more, if that's even possible, John thinks.

She glances around, then sits in the wing-back chair behind her. John looks down at her.

"I have no idea what happened between the two of you that I inherited this – "

"Problem?" Her voice is cool, nearly icy. But her eyes betray her. They are haunted.

John pulls up one of the armchairs and sits opposite his future mothering-law.

"No. No, not a problem. How about truth? For all his snide manner, the constant demeaning or belittling of everyone and everything around him, for all his derisive comments, Sherlock remains desperate for affection."

She looks down at her clasped hands and speaks to the carpet.

"Then I believe it's a good thing for my son that you are there to give it to him, John."

John regards her evenly. A look of sadness fills his dark eyes.

"There's no talking to you, is there?"

Regina sits back suddenly, deflated. Suddenly she looks every one of her years. The careful mask falls away and John can see the exhaustion and tiredness there.

"What would you have me do at this time in my life, John? I can barely - touch – my son. That day at the mansion, when he was so horribly injured, so maltreated –"

John leans forward. He holds both his hands out. After a moment's hesitation, she takes them in hers. He nods encouragingly.

"You had your hand on his shoulder."

She nods. "John, that was the first physical contact my son has allowed between us for – I can't remember. For years."

"And why do you think that is?" John asks tiredly.

Abruptly she pulls her hands out of his and buries her face in her slim hands. John just waits.

When she finally looks up, it's with a lost expression on her beautiful face. For a second, John frowns. Her features are Sherlock's features. It's – difficult – looking into her eyes.

"John, I love my son. Both my sons, John. I always have done."

She comes to her feet and turns to John. Their faces are a few inches apart. John can see the flecks of green in her grey eyes.

"But there are – circumstances – of which you remain unaware. Incidences that I cannot divulge at this time, in the interest of my son's safety."

She lifts her chin and he is reminded that she is his height in stocking feet. It is only the heels that give her the allusion of height. Still, she is wearing heels today and he has to tilt his eyes slightly to look her in the eyes.

"Cannot – or will not, Regina?"

"Cannot, John," says Mycroft from the doorway.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock turns off all the lights in the room, pulls the curtains and crosses to the bed. He tears the covers off their bed, and lies down. He wears dark navy silk pants and nothing else. He throws one arm over his eyes to block out the ambient light.

He doesn't expect to sleep, but in a few minutes the world fades away.

Sherlock dreams. Badly.

After a few more minutes, he groans.

" _John."_

**OooOooO**

Mycroft looks from his mother – to the real power in the room. He blinks. It takes a great deal to garner any overt reaction from the elder Holmes brother, however small, but John Watson just managed to do it.

John stands a few feet away from Mummy, arms crossed over his chest. Defensive posture in anyone else; command posture in John's. His arms aren't crossed in an unconscious effort to protect his vital organs from attack. John's posture is upright, yet manages to be relaxed. His hands are not clenched and Mycroft sees no evidence of a tremor in the left. He appears fully at home confronting Regina Holmes and his crossed arms belie any nervousness that any observer might at first deduce. Or suspect.

As for the normal oatmeal-tinted clothing, John has eschewed his familiar worn jeans for a pair of trousers in dark brown brushed corduroy, a slim-fitting jumper in a warm chocolate color, obviously cashmere, soft, also brushed, over a button-down in a darker burnt orange color – Sherlock would have called it burnt umber. Mycroft calls it appealing.

The only thing 'normal' about John Watson is his Army boots. Mycroft surmises he has taken to wearing them everywhere around the estate, eschewing his brown loafers for dinner and later in the evenings.

The entire effect is one of quiet strength and determination and it's easy to see what his brother – and countless women and not a few men, have found attractive in the former soldier.

Both his mother and John look at him.

"Son –" Regina begins.

Mycroft waves one hand at his mother and she stops talking. He comes over to stand in front of her and John.

"Mummy, I think it's time John learned certain truths –" he begins.

"No! I cannot, Mycroft. I won't. Please do not expect it of me."

Mycroft takes her arm in his and pats it. But makes no further show of affection.

"Mummy, you need to have a lie-down. I'll speak with John from here on out."

"No, Mycroft. We agreed, years back. We agreed for Sherlock's sake. I have to keep him safe. Keep him protected."

"You've done all that – and more – for years, Mother. Please go lie down now. I'll speak with John."

She glances from Mycroft to her future son-in-law. And bites her lip. Finally, Regina nods. She brushes by John with a murmured, "Excuse me, John." Both men watch her as she leaves.

At the quiet click of the door behind her, John turns to Mycroft. He has a puzzled expression on his face.

**OooOooO**

Restless and unable to sleep, Sherlock swings his bare legs over and sits on the edge of the mattress. He presses the palms of his hands into his closed eyes.

It doesn't help.

After a moment, he stands to go to the cubbie and tug out John's worn duffle. He yanks the drawstring, then dumps the contents on the floor. He finds what he is looking for. Prescription bottle in hand, he stands at the window, impatiently brushes the heavy drapes aside and looks out at the approaching storm.

There is a far off boom of thunder.

Sherlock shudders once. His long fingers grip the window sill and finally he turns to regard the room. His pupils are wide with pain and he winces against the small amount of light.

He takes two of the pills, washes them down with water from the tap, then tosses the bottle of pills back on the top of the canvas duffle.

He hurriedly dresses in the jeans and a fresh shirt, then shrugs into the short jacket, after first checking his pockets. He leaves their room, walking quickly.

**OooOooO**

"John, you must be curious by now as to why neither Mummy nor myself – or most particularly Sherlock – ever mentions our father."

John regards the elder Holmes steadily.

"It has crossed my mind, Mycroft, more than once."

Mycroft nods. "It's Mummy's – and my – conscious decision, John. As for Sherlock, I doubt if he remembers much about our father. And what memories still exist, we take great pains to keep suppressed."

"What are you saying, Mycroft?"

His brother-in-law turns to him, and John sees the look in his eyes.

_No. Just. Don't._

The sun still shines outside, barely, although a storm rapidly approaches. It has gone very quiet in the Holmes library. Mycroft frowns, as he gathers his thoughts. John's pulse begins to quicken. He doesn't like the look on his brother-in-law's face. And suddenly wishes he could just leave the room.

" _There are horses in the stables,"_  thinks John _. "Beautiful horses."_  He could go collect Sherlock and the two of them could go out now and feed the horses carrots. They could walk to the stream; walk all over the estate. Take the Harley for a spin; do anything but stand here and listen to this. There's time – before the storm hits.

_Time. There's always time, right?_

Mycroft stands in front of the tall window and regards the exsoldier.

"There are all types of torture, John. Physical. Mental." He glances at John. "Emotional."

"Mycroft ." John's voice sounds alien to his ears. He suddenly doesn't want to hear this. He doesn't.

"I wasn't here. I was at Uni. Mummy was here, but not all the time. She had her charities. Trips to the continent. What more natural than that her youngest be left in the company of his own father?"

"Don't." John's eyes widen. He can see the weak sun shining right outside the window. The rays slant in and paint Mycroft's hair a dark shade of ginger. A single cloud moves slowly across the face of the sun. The room is plunged in semi-darkness.

"Mycroft."

The elder Holmes brother goes on as if John is not in the room. He talks quietly, as if talking to himself. Recounting the horror.

"Sherlock was an – impressionable – child. Curious. Trusting."

" _No. Mycroft, don't."_

"John – have you ever noticed the scar Sherlock has on his left shoulder? It's not a very large scar, John. Small. Perfectly round?"

John's hands grip the back of the chair. "Yes. He's got numerous scars. Sherlock is always being injured or –

"John."

Mycroft stands with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. They stand in the library of the Holmes manor, backlit by a dying sun which is rapidly being eaten by storm clouds.

And John is losing his mind.

"No," he whispers.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock takes a small flat piece of metal out of the pocket of his jacket and stops in front of his old room. It only takes a moment for him to pick the lock.

He pushes open the door and reaches out for a light switch. With a click, his old room is thrown into relief. He looks around at the shelves of books, the shadow boxes of butterfly collections and mineral specimens and carefully preserved animal skeletons, sees the dusty skulls and stacks of notebooks and myriad diagrams and posters – he looks at Bear – and at his old chemistry kit, still sitting in its metal case by the cupboard.

He crosses to the far wall, cylinder in hand. And uses the flat end of the metal cylinder to twist the screws out of the light switch cover.

As he works, he frowns.  _Too slow. I'm being too slow_.  _Must be the migraine._

The cover comes away in his hands.

He lets it fall to the floor.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft Holmes frowns. He stares at a point beyond John, at the blues and golds of the worn Oriental carpeting.

"I came home early from Uni one long weekend, John. My original plans were to stay with friends in London. But Mummy insisted we all be together for Sherlock's birthday."

"His birthday," John says. When did his voice go hoarse?

"I came in early on a Friday afternoon. Sherlock's birthday celebration was set for Sunday morning. However, I had not seen my brother for two full months. I had brought him books he'd asked for from University. I wanted to see his reaction to my other gift – a rather comprehensive chemistry kit."

 _Of course. Sherlock would appreciate a chemistry kit, at his age._ John tries to remember if he ever owned one. He doesn't think so.

"Hence I came in approximately twenty-four hours earlier than expected by Mummy, the household staff – and our father."

"Mycroft," John's mouth has gone dry. He needs to get some water. He really does. Or maybe someone would bring them tea.  _Do they actually 'ring for tea' here or is it just a given that there will be tea? Does it just show up, unannounced?_

"Mummy wasn't here at the estate. She was in London, having her hair done, I believe."

 _Of course, Regina was gone. Of course, she was._ But then John thinks of her face as she left earlier – and decides to forestall judgment.

"Our housekeeper had brought luncheon earlier to my father's study, per my father's request. He said he was 'coaching Sherlock' in his reading. My brother was ten-years old and reading on a college level. They were going over Fermi's theorem, I do believe."

John tries to breath past the rock in his chest.

"I left my kit by the door and went down the hall toward the room our father used as his study. I tried not to make a sound, as I wanted to surprise both of them."

" _It was windy,"_  thinks John.  _"Probably raining, too. Mycroft's left that bit out. Of course, the wind was blowing outside. The day was gray. It's always grey in January, right? Grey. Cold."_

"I came down the hall, half expecting to hear my brother's laughter or his loud defense of some theory, John. In those days, even at the age of ten, Sherlock would defend his ideas with enthusiasm. You could hear him all over the house. But it was deathly quiet, John.

I came upon father's study door, which was closed, but not locked."

" _I have to stop this. Put a stop to this._ "

"Mycroft –"

"I opened the door as quietly as possible, John, with the idea of surprising them both. Our father sat in the chair at his desk. Sherlock sat at his feet, his knees curled up to his chin. He was dressed in thin cotton pants and a thin tee shirt. Nothing else, John. No socks, no slippers. No robe. The fire had gone out long before."

Mycroft refocuses his gaze and looks deliberately at John Watson.

"The window was open, John. January in England. And the bloody window was open. It was freezing in the room. I could see every breath Sherlock took. My brother sat on the cold floor in a freezing room, John, dressed in nothing but his underwear. He had both arms wrapped around his knees."

John frowns. His heart labors in his chest.

"I stood in the open doorway and the first thing I noted was my younger brother's condition. Which was horrid. He was shivering uncontrollably from cold. The second thing I saw was the livid red mark on Sherlock's left shoulder. And the third thing I saw, John, was our father's eyes, as he looked up from contemplation of his youngest son and looked at his eldest."

"Mycroft." John clears his throat and tries again. "Mycroft –"

"I didn't recognize him, John. Not really. There was something - there – behind the eyes. I remember the feeling as a blow over the heart. Sherlock was white as a sheet. But he kept his arms wrapped around his knees. He was rocking back and forth."

"When I saw the red mark, John, I knew without being told that my younger brother had been deliberately burned by a lit cigarette."

Mycroft looks at John with narrowed eyes.

"I saw all of it immediately, John. Father followed my line of sight and shook his head. All he said to me was, "Mycroft, I'm afraid your younger brother does not have your propensity to follow instructions." Then he stood and I remember I stood back from him, as he brushed by me.

"Father turned to look at Sherlock and then at me. He said, "He needs to remain that way for another hour or two. Just to learn his place.' And he left, John."

John comes around the front of the chair and sits heavily. He continues to watch Mycroft Holmes' face as he speaks. He wouldn't stop him now even if he could.

Mycroft nods once. "I went over and put my arms around Sherlock's shoulders. He didn't move. Just kept rocking back and forth, looking ahead at the cold fireplace. His face was paper white. I told him, 'Come on, Sherlock. Get up now.'"

John takes a deep breath. Takes another.

"All Sherlock said was, "I can't, Mye. I have to stay here. He'll see. He'll know."

John's blood runs cold.

"I grabbed a throw from the chair and wrapped it around my brother and tried to get him to stand. I asked how long he'd been made to sit there like that?'"

John looks up at him. Waits. He can hear the blood rushing in his veins.

"Sherlock said, 'Three hours, Mye. "

Mycroft moves to sit in the chair that Regina vacated earlier. He leans forward, toward John, and clasps his hands.

"Three hours, John. Three hours sitting on the floor. In his cotton pants and thin shirt, barelegged and barefoot. Unmoving. Slowly freezing. Three hours of emotional, mental and physical torture – a few dozen feet from the staff in this household. None of whom knew or suspected a bloody thing about it."

John just looks at him, sick to his stomach.

"I had to literally bend and pick Sherlock up, John. He began to struggle. To cry out, 'No. No. He'll see. He'll know.'"

Mycroft frowns, remembering. "He refused to stand."

" _Stop now. Stop."_

John's eyes are wide and he thinks he's going to throw up in the bin by the table.

Mycroft shakes himself and his eyes come back from wherever they were.

"I picked him up, John, and placed him on the divan. He wouldn't stretch out his legs. He remained curled up in a ball."

Mycroft looks down at John's boots, as if speaks to them alone.

"I was afraid father would come back at any minute, John. So I left Sherlock on the divan, wrapped as warmly as I could make him and shut and locked the door. I closed the window and built a quick fire in the fireplace. Then I picked up the landline to call Mummy. The head of the salon refused to put me through. I put a call through to the local precinct. Finally, finally, someone agreed to get Mummy on the line. But it took a long time, John. All the while, I sat there, gripping the phone with one hand, and holding onto Sherlock with the other. We sat there together. And neither of us said a word."

Mycroft sighs and leans back in his chair. "John, I have an excellent memory, eidetic. But to this day, I cannot tell you what I told our Mother. I can only tell you that she left the salon and was here in under two hours. The police, of course, were here much faster."

"The next thing I consciously remember hearing was our former housekeeper's voice outside the door. Demanding I unlock the door and let her in to see to Sherlock."

The elder Holmes brother looks John Watson directly in the eyes.

"I vowed to not open that door, John, unless it was to our mother. I refused her request. I took the extra chair and slid it up under the knob. And sat there with my arms around Sherlock until our mother got there. It was two hours, John. Although the police were here before then. But I refused them admittance, too. I couldn't be certain now, could I?"

Mycroft shakes his head. John watches every expression that crosses his face.

"Two hours, John. But it felt like days. Then, I heard something that sounded like an argument and – things – hitting the door. I heard our father's voice, angry, demanding. And other voices. And then finally, Mummy's voice, saying I could open the door now. He was gone. We were safe. So I opened the door. Sherlock never moved in all that time. He just lay there, wrapped up in that damn throw. Staring at the fire."

John just looks at him. And waits.

"Sherlock doesn't remember that, John. Or rather, he can't."

"You're saying that Sherlock has no memory of something so foul that clearly had a horrendous effect on him? Mycroft –"

John stops speaking and as the thought occurs, his dark blue eyes fill with horror.

Mycroft nods. "You're a doctor, John, and as such will understand. He was in what you would refer to as a catatonic state for hours. Mummy and I called an ambulance. Mummy sat with Sherlock in the ambulance and I followed directly behind in one of the family vehicles."

Mycroft stops speaking abruptly and John looks at him.

"Mycroft?"

The elder Holmes stands and turns to the window, his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

He looks out at the gathering storm. His voice, when it comes, is utterly cold. But it's not the tone that makes John Watson shiver.

"I never saw our father again, John, after that night. Mummy told me once, and once only, that he was being 'cared for' by top people, as I believe she referred to it. But no matter. I never laid eyes on him again. Neither did Sherlock. I understood why. But Sherlock didn't. He never consciously remembered any of it. All he knew was that when he returned home from hospital, after a sudden illness he couldn't even remember, our father was gone. With no explanation. Just gone, never to return."

"Everyone leaves," John whispers.

Mycroft turns from the window and nods tiredly. "Just so."

Mycroft regards John grimly. "Eventually, our father was determined fit enough to be released back into society by the very doctors we had trusted to keep him away. He attempted to contact Sherlock one time, through Sherlock's school. That attempt failed. His attitude toward my younger brother at that time was – untenable – to say the least. Mummy and I _requested_  that our father leave and never return."

John frowns. He stands a few feet behind Mycroft and suddenly, he's afraid. He's afraid of what Mycroft Holmes is about to say next. He wants nothing more than to jerk Mycroft by the shoulder and demand he stop speaking. But he cannot talk. He's literally mesmerized by Mycroft Holmes slow voice, by the way he stands in the faded light, by how very similar his profile and mannerisms are to Sherlock's.

He watches his brother-in-law turn to face him and John thinks, not for the first time, how alike the brothers are – their silhouettes, the way the light tinges the dark hair auburn, in Mycroft's case, more of a dark ginger shade. The way they both stand with their hands in the pockets of their trousers, as if that simple act anchors them to the earth. The way they often rock back on their heels as if observing everything and everyone around them. Deducing. Observing. Re-defining reality.

"Are you certain you want this truth, John? Because once spoken –"

"Just tell me then," John says. He's so damned tired now. And he needs to leave this place and find Sherlock. H _e's afraid. Jesus, he's afraid of words now._

The two men stare at each other.

"Our father, John, who at that time resembled Sherlock to an astonishing degree, save for his hair color, was requested to relinquish all parental rights as our father and to divorce our mother, with as little publicity as possible. In return for this, he was offered a deal, an extremely lucrative one, I do believe. The details of which called for him to remove his presence from our lives and this country and to stay as far away as possible from the Holmes estate – and from his sons, particularly his youngest, for all time. He utterly refused the divorce, however. But accepted the other terms. Mummy went along in the interests of protecting all of us. After negotiations with our mother's attorney, he finally agreed to these terms."

Mycroft looks at his brother-in-law. "It was only after he left England, John, that Mummy was finally able to speak with his physicians. At first, they refused to divulge any information about our father's treatment. It was after she obtained a court order, that Mummy was allowed access to father's psychiatric records from the 'facility in question.' It turns out that both of his examining psychiatrists recommended he be kept at that facility – or some such – for the remainder of his natural life. But father had not only an entire team of lawyers at his disposal, including some of the sharpest legal minds of the age, but rather extensive and far-reaching contacts within the British government."

John watches as Mycroft clenches his hands into balls in his trouser pockets.

"For want of a better term, John, our father had been thoroughly examined and determined to be clinically insane."

**OooOooO**

Written to Adele's "I Set Fire To the Rain." Particularly, the last section. 'sky'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The incredible image of Sherlock on horseback, as seen in Ch. 10, is the creation of my fantastic Beta, Sherlock'sScarf, a wonderful writer and artist.
> 
> Here is a link to her Deviant Art portfolio.
> 
> http://www.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=Sherlock%27sScarf


	11. Chapter 11

 

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 11**

  **OooOooO**

PROMISES: BAMF John. Sherlock Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. Regina Holmes.

WARNINGS: Triggers for references to past child abuse; psychological torture; Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.  if any of these are a possible trigger for you, please skip this one!  

**OooOooO**

**"In the night, I wish to speak with the angel to find out if she recognizes my eyes, if she will ask me: do you see Eden? And I'll reply: Eden burns."**  
 **―** **Rainer Maria Rilke**

 

**OooOooO**

**John watches as Mycroft clenches his hands into balls in his trouser pockets.**

**"For want of a better term, John, our father had been thoroughly examined and determined to be clinically insane."**

**OooOooO**

_Mycroft's timing is off. It should be midnight and we should be sitting in front of a fire. One that has long since burned out and only red coals left, burning silently. A cold moon should be shining through the library windows. There should be two brandies on the table._

John tries to swallow around the rock in his throat and finds it near impossible. A small pulse has begun to beat in his temple.

He stares at Mycroft; his hands clasped in front of him and he feels his fingers tighten against the backs of his hands.

"Mycroft -," John clears his throat. "Mycroft –"

"Just a moment, John."

Mycroft stands, walks to one of the nearest library shelves. John follows his tall figure and realises the shelf Mycroft stands in front of boasts only two books, as well as what appears to be a marble sculpture, of what John cannot tell as it is obscured by his brother's tall body.

Mycroft's long fingers pull the wider of the books toward him and he turns to cross back in front of John. Mycroft holds the volume, bound in dark blue leather, out to the ex soldier.

John looks up, then gingerly takes the book from him. It is surprisingly heavy. He doesn't even glance at the cover – not yet. Not until Mycroft reseats himself, then leans forward, his hands clasped; his two index fingers tap against each other. The movement is so reminiscent of Sherlock in his thinking pose, that John feels a momentary pang, accompanied by a sudden keen sense of loss.

 _Where is Sherlock_? Suddenly, leaving this place and finding the detective seems paramount to John, particularly in light of the horror he has just learned.

But he has to know. He stays put and hefts the book in his hands. He looks into Mycroft's steel blue eyes.

Mycroft stares at the book in John's faithful hands and speaks slowly, as if feeling his way with words.

"John, would you argue that most parents, given the opportunity, would aver that the legacy they leave behind them is their children?"

He lifts his eyes to John's dark blue gaze. There is no guile in Mycroft's tone of voice. No begging the question. He really wants to know John's opinion.

John clears his throat. "I would agree, yes, Mycroft. Not in every case – but, yes, in most."

The elder Holmes nods. "And I have heard our mother refer to both of us as such. "

His eyes drop from John's down to the book John holds.

John still has not looked at the cover.

"John, what you hold in your hands is our father's legacy. And I can say, unhesitatingly, that he would never refer to his progeny as being the record he desires to stand for his name. No, that would be impersonal, to say the least. This work you hold, some would call it his life's work, is all he would wish the world to know of Nicholas Holmes. Nearly all."

John feels his heart pound in his throat. He frowns at Mycroft, then slowly lowers his eyes to the heavy book. The title stands out in silver leaf.

_Cosmos – An Interpretation of Quantum Mechanics with particular reference to the Universal Wave Function: A new Paradigm._

_N. S. Holmes_

John flips to the first few pages of the book. He raises an eyebrow. DSc, CH, CBE, FRS, FRSA. There are other honorariums and titles listed but he stops reading.

He glances up at Mycroft. "Your father is a –"

"Holder of the Order of the British Empire? Yes, John. As well as a world-renowned mathematician and physicist. Or at least he was, until his subsequent diagnosis and eventual banishment effectively stripped him of many of his titles, the honorary. He retains the earned, which are considerable. This volume, I have been assured by those who should know, represents one of the foremost respected works on Mathematical Physics in the world today, rivaling those of Professor Stephen Hawking. Not being an accomplished mathematician or physicist myself, I have very little frame of reference."

John's eyes widen and he closes the book, rubs one calloused thumb over the spine.

Mycroft watches John's fingers as they run up and down the leather binding.

"You can imagine, John, that I have had little desire to delve into this work."

John looks from the book in his hands to his brother-in-law's eyes. And frowns at what he sees there.

Mycroft's lips purse. "I, too, lost a father that night."

John's fingers continue rubbing the leather spine. The tiniest spark of heat accompanies his slight movement. When he realises this, he stops abruptly and stares at his fingertips.

As if he has not noticed, Mycroft continues. "I have no idea if Sherlock has ever read this, although it would be in keeping with his character, his need to know. But if so, he has never mentioned it."

Mycroft looks at John again. "My brother is a brilliant chemist. He took a first in mathematics, as well as in several languages. But as far as I know, he has only a layman's knowledge of physics, if any at all. I highly doubt if he knows anything about the field of theoretical physics, as he denies even the most rudimentary knowledge of the solar system itself. This – work – took our father away from him, from both of us, John. I imagine this volume would be anathema to Sherlock."

He stares into John's troubled gaze. "As it is to me."

Abruptly, John cannot be rid of the thing fast enough. He hands the book to Mycroft, who takes it from his grasp and crosses back to the library shelf to redeposit it on its lone shelf. He pauses in the act of sliding the volume back onto the polished mahogany.

"You're a physician, John. As such, you had to pass a rather exacting course in physics. Your knowledge in this area is assuredly greater than Sherlock's. It might interest you to read this one day."

"It wasn't theoretical or quantum physics, and I can almost guarantee you that I will never read it, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes nods, almost absently to himself. He slides the leather volume back, but does not turn. He appears to be thinking.

John wonders what the second book is. Surely it must have some importance in order to hold its own on the same shelf with the first volume? He gives it up as unimportant.

Mycroft stands at the shelf, his back half-turned to John, his head turned to the side.

"John, as disturbing as all of this is, there's a thought that has stayed with me for years, one that holds more horrific connotations than anything I have told you here this afternoon."

John's breath hitches in his chest. He has no words for this revelation. He remains leaning forward, his hands clasped in front of him. He merely watches Sherlock's brother. And waits.

Mycroft turns, his hands once again in the pockets of his trousers. A single slanting ray of dying sunlight finds John's bright head through the library window. For a few seconds, John's hair and face are bathed in flame. He turns his head slightly and winces at the sudden light.

Then it's gone.

Mycroft regards his brother in law as he sits in the wing backed library chair.

"John – what if that wasn't the first time?"

**OooOooO**

Sherlock stands in front of the gaping hole in the wall, the light switch cover at his feet, where it has fallen, splintered into two pieces.

He stares at the relatively small aperture. It seemed larger before? Ah, yes. Of course.

He was much younger then … 14? 15? His hands, although large for his age, were still much smaller than they are now. There is no question of his being able to fit his hand into the space around the light switches. And he must be careful, the string is bound to be worn after all of these years. As brutal with his own thought processes as ever, he excoriates himself. He should have used fishing line.

Sherlock lifts the slim piece of metal, stares at the rather sharp tip, then drops it on the floor. He looks around, finally crosses to his old desk and finds a pencil. He uses the pencil, eraser end first, to gingerly snag the ancient string that still hangs, knotted, from one of the protruding switches. And all the time he attempts to ignore the increased pounding in his head.

He tilts the eraser end up until it snags on the string, then pulls. Slowly, slowly, the string begins to appear from its dark prison. When enough of it is visible, Sherlock grabs it between finger and thumb and carefully pulls it the rest of the way.

The string winds down the wall, under his hands. If his head didn't hurt so abominably, he would be amused at how much string he used at the time, as if it matters. It's small cargo is heavier than he remembers.

At last, the ends of the string are freed from their dark confines in the wall. He gives a tiny yank, and the string breaks off at its knot and comes loose in his hands.

Sherlock drops the pencil to the floor, then regards the three tiny plastic pouches now in his hands. Each small pouch is zipped shut, and then pierced by a small hole. He seems to remember he used the tip of a pen to bore the holes. He can't be entirely certain, now, can he, given his frame of mind at the time.

The string is looped through each pouch, twice, then on to the next. Apparently, his 15-year-old self wasn't taking any chances.

One of the plastic bags appears to hold a granular substance; he barely glances at it. He wrenches the string; it's so worn that it easily breaks in his strong fingers.

Sherlock looks at the next two pouches, perplexed, and more than slightly puzzled at their contents. He has little memory of secreting them in the wall. But something has driven him to retrieve them again. Perhaps it has something to do with the agonizing headaches he is once again experiencing?

He glances up and looks around his old room. Everything is as it once was, with the exception of his bed, which is long gone. Apparently, Mummy has given orders that his room is to be kept dust-free and orderly. Other than the faint tracing of dust on one or two of his specimens, he notes that his childhood sanctuary is in nearly pristine condition. Obviously, whoever is in charge of dusting is loath to touch the animal skulls.

Sherlock turns to the center of the room, and foregoing the chair at his desk, which he doubts would hold him, he slowly sinks, until he sits, cross-legged, in the exact center of the carpet. The curtains are only drawn partway across the windows, and although the darkening sky is winning the battle, the struggling sunlight makes its presence known in the form of passing shadows that slide against the far wall and over his form, as he sits on the floor.

He holds the three pouches, all of them torn away from the ancient string, in his left palm. Absently, he rubs the space between his eyes with his right forefinger. He wishes John were here. John would know what to do about this wretched head pain.

He glances again at the first pouch with its grainy substance, frowns, then drops it to the floor by his side. He returns his attention to the two remaining pouches. Both of them hold what appear to be folded-up bits of paper.

Sherlock carefully pries the second small plastic bag open, then tilts the contents out onto his palm. Something small, round and hard slips through his fingers and he lets it lie on the carpet by his knees. He gingerly opens what seems to be a much-folded photograph, unfolding it with extreme care so as not to tear the edges. Once open, the photo lies on his left palm. He regards it with interest. Then he places it carefully on the carpet by his side and turns his attention to the third pouch.

As he tilts the worn newsprint out onto his shaking palm, he hears the far off sound of thunder.

**OooOooO**

Regina has her tea in her study; then sighs and rubs at her forehead. The headache that began earlier in the planning session has not left her. She decides Mycroft is right; she needs to lie down for a while. She climbs the winding staircase but at the top, rather than turn right toward her rooms, she glances toward the left wing. So many things were left unfinished between her and her youngest.

John Watson's words ring in her head. "Not too late to establish some sort of bond ... not too late."

She lifts her chin and walks down the long corridor toward Sherlock and John's room.

**OooOooO**

John stares at him. "You'd have noticed. Regina would have."

"Would she, John? Would I? If Sherlock had been subtly and psychologically maltreated at our father's hands, would we know it? I was away at University for weeks at a time. I was a young man with an exacting course of study, new friends and a new life on the horizon. And although I'll admit that Sherlock was my younger brother and I cared deeply for his welfare, I assumed, quite naturally, that he was thriving under our parents' care. I can assure you, John, that if Mummy had noticed anything different about her youngest son's behavior, she would have done something about it immediately. But who suspects their spouse of such systemic and sustained abuse, particularly of such a nature?"

Unable to sit any longer, John comes abruptly to his feet. He stands there surrounded by all the knowledge in the world in the form of leather-bound volume after volume, literally thousands of books.

And not one word in any of them on how to handle this.

His mouth has gone dry. As if in response to his thoughts, the door opens and Mrs. Robinson herself bustles in with a loaded tea tray.

"Gentlemen. Please let us know if anything's lacking." She speaks to both men, but her smile is pointedly directed at John.

"Thank you, Mrs. Robinson," Mycroft says. She nods in his direction.

If she notes anything in their posture, she doesn't comment on it, but chalks it up to some small misunderstanding. The men are soon to be family, after all.

"Bound to be some kinks to work out," Eugenia Robinson thinks as she leaves the room. She shuts the door behind her. Her mind is already on the evening ahead, on dinner and the simple dessert she has ordered for Captain Watson's enjoyment, and on the need to light the fire in the library and other rooms, should the promised storm hit and take the electricity with it.

John stares at Mycroft, his brain seething.

"Mycroft, did you notice any change in Sherlock's attitude, before this incident? You say that neither of you saw your father again after that. But before that, you were away for months. Did Regina notice—"

"I can tell you the answer to that, John. The answer is No. She noticed nothing."

Mycroft takes his hands out of his pockets and bends to pick up a china cup. He pours tea for John, perfunctorily adds milk, then hands the cup to John. John takes it and looks at it as if he doesn't quite recognise what it is.

Mycroft pours a cup for himself and sits. John continues to stare out the window at the dark clouds. A wind has sprung up. He can see it bend the branches of the closest trees.

Finally, he sits. The two men drink tea in silence. John places his cup on the table next to him and leans forward toward Mycroft.

"Okay. You told me all this, Mycroft, because –"

"Please, John. You've already seen some of the behavior that both Mummy and I have had to deal with –"

"Deal with?" John interrupts. "Bloody hell, Mycroft. You make it sound as it was an ordeal of Sherlock's making."

The elder Holmes brother sets his tea cup down and sits back, his long fingers drum on the arm rests of the chair.

"Apologies, John. Poor choice of phrasing. I told you all this because I felt you needed to know what you might be up against."

A moment's silence.

"John, I should tell you that I am aware of certain facts about your own childhood."

"If you're trying to surprise me, Mycroft, you haven't," John says.

"I didn't think that was the case, John. And you should know that Sherlock has not betrayed any confidences concerning your own family background."

"I know that," John says. His voice is quiet now as his mind grapples with the information Mycroft has given him. How in hell is he supposed to –

"John, drawing upon your own experiences, isn't it a fact that none of the so-called responsible adults in your life realised the situation that existed in your household? And I include both medical personnel and your teachers in that group."

John nods tiredly. "No one noticed. Not for a long time."

Mycroft looks at him. Something like pain, if John didn't know better, shows up behind the steel eyes. "John, in your own case, you were being physically abused. This went on for years until you were hospitalized with a broken wrist, correct?

"Yes, that's right."

John doesn't meet Mycroft's eyes. He can't. He stares out at the garden and trees. To the left of the library window, he can just make out some of the incredible blooms that grace the grounds of the Holmes manor estate. Twists of scarlet, of pink and violet, sway in the gathering breeze. Some of the colors look otherworldly in the darkening light, particularly the red blooms, which seem to have taken on a slight greenish tint. John wonders idly what effect a horrific storm will have on the delicate flowers. He knows nothing about gardening, other than being able to recognize a few veg when he sees them.

John withdraws his gaze from the plants and the darkening sky outside the tall windows and stares momentarily at the silver-framed photograph of a much younger Mycroft and an incredibly young Sherlock. In the photo, Sherlock, all tumbled curls and shining teeth, ("Five?" thinks John. "Possibly, six?" ) holds on tightly to his older brother's hand. Both boys are smiling at the camera, but in Sherlock's instance, the smile is more of an impudent grin. John, almost, grins back.

He looks at Sherlock's open shining face, notes the tight grasp the young Holmes has on his brother's hand. He sees no sign of abuse or of sadness of any sort in that joyful young face. A strange feeling comes over John. He frowns.

John puts his attention on Mycroft. "What are you asking me, Mycroft? Are you saying that if no one noticed ongoing abuse in my case, that it is entirely possible that it had been going on for a while in Sherlock's?"

" _And what is it with the fathers in our lives_ ," John wonders. He has never thought about being a parent, about fatherhood. But by God, if he ever has a small life in his care, he will regard that person as the miracle that all children are. John shakes his head. Not likely that will ever happen. And what of it? One child is quite enough to be going on with at any time. And he already has that one child in his care. Still – John looks again at the treasured photo of Sherlock and Mycroft … and something in his chest suddenly blooms with want. He shoves the unexpected emotion down as far as he can. And promptly forgets about it.

But how to make any of this right?

"Not really, John. I wasn't using your case as a corollary."

Mycroft regards the ex-soldier in front of him with something akin to affection. "There are some things in life, John, that you cannot fix or repair. No matter how very much you wish to do so."

John puts his attention on his brother-in-law. "All right. How do we proceed from here? It's obvious we can't just ask Sherlock if he remembers any of this. You say he doesn't remember anything from that night. And you? Can you look back and think of any incidences that might point out evidence of ongoing –"

"No, John. And I've tried several times over the years. The time I saw Sherlock before that, was two months prior. I wasn't home for Christmas that year. So that would have made it November. We had a family gathering at that time. Both our parents, Sherlock and I, and a few other extended family members, as well as some family friends were in attendance. I've examined what memories I have from those few days and I cannot come up with anything that would indicate Sherlock was –"

"Crying for help?" John offers.

Mycroft nods, sadly. "Just so," he says. He regards the ex soldier carefully.

"However, John, if Sherlock were being abused, mentally and emotionally by our father, is it not possible, even to be expected, that he had long since learned to dissemble, to hide that abuse? I am not an expert in this field, John, and would have to bow to your knowledge and experience as a physician. But my brother is extremely intelligent and that intelligence manifested at an incredibly early age. Our father took it upon himself to educate Sherlock, to further his understanding of the natural sciences and of mathematics. Our father saw himself in Sherlock, of that I am certain."

"Saw himself? Mycroft, what are you saying?" John's frown deepens. He needs to get out of here and find his partner.

Mycroft Holmes frowns and looks again at the carpet at his feet. "John, I will ask Mummy for a photograph of our father. To my knowledge, all of them have been removed from this and all other rooms in the house. I believe Mummy has any remaining photographs of her husband in her keeping. I have a few in my keeping, of course, but none in my possession at the moment."

Mycroft looks up from contemplation of the carpet to meet John's troubled gaze head on.

"If you could see our father, particularly in relation with Sherlock as he appeared at the time, it might explain quite a lot. In the meantime, it's entirely possible that Sherlock was the unwitting object of our father's growing madness for quite some time, before anyone noticed. John, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't it the norm for such abused children to display open fondness toward the adult in question? I have no idea if this is a deliberate coping mechanism or something that acts as a shield of the abusive figure."

He looks steadily at John, who continues to frown as he thinks.

John looks up. "I'm not a child psychologist, Mycroft, but a few of my colleagues are. Yes, you are entirely correct. It is unfortunately common for children to become adept at hiding such behavior. They can become quite good at it. If you didn't know better, you would think the child, in this instance, Sherlock, actually favors the abusive parent. But … Sherlock was obviously a prodigy at his age, still –"

"Actually, John, the term 'prodigy' denotes someone who—"

John waves an impatient hand. "Okay, Mycroft. Fine. He was a super intelligent kid. But damn it, didn't he still have a nurse? Someone who saw that he was bathed and dressed daily? Someone who would have noticed any bruises or marks on him that weren't explainable by, I don't know, climbing trees? Riding ponies? Scrambling all over this huge estate? Did your Mum do it or—"

"There was a nurse, John. Actually, Sherlock ran through a gamut of them from an early age. It wasn't easy, finding someone willing to take on such an exuberant charge. After we'd gone through four of them, in succession, I took on that responsibility myself. Until I left for university. As for what you are implying, I do not think that Sherlock experienced ongoing physical injury at our father's hands. I believe that one night was the only time. Although I have nothing empirical on which to base this belief."

John nods slowly, thinking. "Okay. So let's assume that he was messing with your brother's head at an early age. And kept on doing so. No one, none of his nurses, ever said anything that would have made Regina suspicious, or you?"

Mycroft sighs. He slowly pours himself another cup of tea. He looks at John and holds up his tea cup. John shakes his head.

Mycroft sits back with his tea and stares at his brother-in-law. "John, we had one nurse, Sherlock's last nurse, who adored my brother. She was his nurse for a little more than one full year before she died. She was the answer to our mother's prayers and mine. And, I thought at the time, our father's. A truly sterling individual. Bright, steady, moral. She and Sherlock took to each other as, I believe the expression is, a duck to water."

Mycroft drinks his tea, then sets the delicate china cup back in its saucer. He thinks for a moment. "I seem to recall, John, that Mummy once said she had a slightly disturbing meeting with this nurse, after which Mummy considered giving her notice. She eventually thought better of it, however. I do not recall that my mother ever told me exactly what was said in that conversation, John."

Mycroft finishes his tea. "And all of this is moot, anyway, John, as she died quite soon afterward, less than three months before the events of the particular evening we have been discussing."

John raises his head and looks across the few feet at the elder Holmes brother. Suddenly, he doesn't want to know.

"Died? How?" His voice sounds hoarse in his ears.

_Please. No._

Mycroft sets down his empty cup and sits back, his long fingers drum on the armrests of his chair. "An unfortunate series of occurrences, John. She and Sherlock had been out roaming the estate on one of what they both referred to as nature walks. Sherlock would take his sketch pad and pencil and she would walk all over the land with him, in all sorts of weather, I am afraid, exhorting him to sketch what he saw, to keep a record of the flora and fauna present on the Holmes estate. Afterward, she would go over his sketches and she would have him label each plant, tree and bush, using the reference books available to him here in the library."

Mycroft's voice has gone quiet. John's stomach churns slightly with a feeling of dread and he sits upright in his chair, his hands gripping the arm rest. Somewhere far off, he hears a faint rumble of thunder.

Mycroft leans slightly and brings his left hand to his mouth as he remembers. He frowns slightly as his long fingers rub back and forth against his lips.

"After one such outing, Sherlock came running in to say that Nurse had fallen, that she had apparently injured, possibly broken, her ankle. He was utterly frantic that he return to her immediately. Mummy naturally wanted to send household staff out to find her and bring her back. She and father insisted Sherlock remain in the house, as the weather had turned truly dreadful."

He taps his finger against his lips and looks at John, a disturbing light in his eyes.

"I was away at University, John, and was told all of this secondhand after it had occurred."

Mycroft frowns at John's boots, as he thinks aloud. "Our father was in attendance, John, and he immediately volunteered to find the woman and return her to the house. With Sherlock's hurried but clear directions, it should have been child's play to locate her and get her back inside safely before the bulk of the storm hit."

Mycroft lifts his eyes to John. "Mummy told me that Sherlock had a near fit; he begged to accompany father to find Ms. - Henderson. Yes, of course. Holly Henderson. Odd, that. I haven't thought about the blasted woman for years."

He taps his long fingers on his armrest. John wonders if he's even aware he's doing it.

John looks at his brother-in-law. "What happened, Mycroft?"

Mycroft looks back at John and his smile is grim.

"As I said, Sherlock apparently became near frantic when our father said he'd go in search of Ms. Henderson. Mummy was just as adamant that Sherlock remain inside to wait. Father went out with one of our staff, pointing out that the two of them were all that were needed to bring Ms. Henderson back to the house. Our staff member, a young man father had engaged as a language tutor for Sherlock, came back immediately, begging torches and blankets as the sky had turned quite dark and the night air was cool. Then he went out again."

John's pulse pounds in his temple and his eyes widen as he stares at Mycroft.

Mycroft shakes his head slightly and frown lines deepen between his eyes.

"According to Mummy, it took only a little time for the two men to find Ms. Henderson down by the farthest of the streams. Father found her right off and volunteered to remain with her until Sherlock's tutor arrived with the torches and blankets. The storm had not yet hit and he was loathe to make her walk – or to carry her – in near total darkness. But according to Mummy, it took quite some time for them to return. It was father who carried her back here to the house. She was a tiny little thing, tiny but formidable. In that, she reminds me somewhat of your Ms. Hansen. At any rate, according to Mummy, it was obvious the woman was quite ill, that it was more than a broken ankle. Apparently, she was rambling, stating all types of nonsense. Mummy immediately called Thomas Fields, who had recently become our family physician. He was in London that night, I believe, and recommended that Ms. Henderson be taken to hospital immediately. This was done, of course, that same night. Thomas attended to her there."

Mycroft shakes his head a last time, as if trying to dispel the gloomy thoughts. "She died a week or so later, John, from complications arising from pneumonia. I remember Mummy telling me over the phone that Sherlock wanted to see her in hospital, but this was denied him, as neither of our parents saw any good coming from such a visit. He never saw her again. It was a damned shame, as Sherlock worshipped the ground she walked on."

"Everyone leaves," John says with quiet determination.

Mycroft nods.

John can't take his eyes off Mycroft's quiet face. All the time the elder Holmes has been speaking a thought has developed in John's mind. A disturbing thought. A horrible thought.

But how to broach this with his brother-in-law?

John clears his throat again. His voice sounds hesitant, uncertain when he speaks.

"Mycroft, you said that Sherlock worshipped the ground she walked on. That they got along like a house on fire."

Mycroft tilts his head at John and stares at him. "Yes, John. Your point?"

John takes a deep breath. "Mycroft, your father is the one who went to find Ms. Henderson, correct? And you say it took a very long time for the two of them to bring her back, longer than what would be considered normal?"

Mycroft frowns. "John, again, I was not on hand. You have to remember that I am relaying information that Mummy gave me over the course of two telephone calls and that this incident occurred when Sherlock was nearly ten years old."

John nods. He feels slightly sick to his stomach but he has not spent two years living with Sherlock Holmes for nothing. And all of his alarm bells are ringing.

He leans forward. "Mycroft, what if it wasn't a coincidence that Sherlock 'had a fit' as your mother called it when your father said he would go in search of his beloved nurse? What if it's not a horrid accident that the woman was left out in the storm for too long a time, that she came back feverish, out of her head? That she died a few days later?"

Mycroft stops speaking and lowers his hand to the armrest. He stares outright into John Watson's dark blue eyes. "John, I do believe you might be reaching here."

"Am I, Mycroft? With what you have told me and more importantly, what you have intimated about your father and about his attitude toward and behavior around a very young Sherlock, a boy you say he 'identified with' in so many aspects, a child who he took it upon himself to educate, -  _am_  I reaching here?"

Mycroft Holmes and John Watson look at each other.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock opens the worn newsprint article, carefully clipped and preserved. He reads the article, although by now the pain in his head is near encompassing and he has to wince to read the small letters.

He reads the article for a second time and a mist blurs his eyesight. Without thinking consciously, he gropes by his side for the photograph. He brings it up to his eyes and stares at it longingly.

His heart hammers in his chest.

"John," Sherlock whispers.

**OooOooO**

Regina walks determinedly down the hall of the west wing. At the open door of Sherlock's childhood bedroom, she pauses and glances in. Her eyes widen.

She puts out one slim hand and pushes the door the rest of the way open.

"Sherlock? Son?"

Sherlock Holmes lifts his eyes from contemplation of the photograph and news article and stares up at his mother.

Her glance goes from his cool stare, to his hands and finally to the small plastic bag that lies next to him on the carpet. Her grey eyes widen.

She comes into the room the rest of the way.

"Son? What are you doing?"

"What are you doing here, Mother?" the deep voice questions. He follows her gaze to the small plastic bag next to him. Before he can stop her, she bends to retrieve it. His hand reaches out and his palm overlaps her slim hand as it grasps the bag.

"Mother, I don't want you here," he repeats.

She looks at him.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft looks into John's dark gaze. He frowns. His mind races back years. Finds certain dates in time. And his eidetic memory begins to put together nuances of phrasing, little glances from his father directed toward his brother's nurse, Ms. Henderson. Small snatches of barely overhead conversation. And on the few occasions he was home and around to notice, Sherlock's preternatural silence around their father when in the company of his beloved nurse.

And he comes to the inevitable conclusion.

His gaze refocuses and he looks at John Watson, who tilts his white-blonde head to one side as he studies him.

"John, I –" He breaks off suddenly.

John smiles grimly. "At least think about it, Mycroft. From what you have told me, it isn't that much of a stretch, is it?"

"John, you are intimating that our father might be guilty of murder, premeditated or –"

"Not really," John says quietly. "But he might be guilty of criminal neglect, with intent to harm. He is most definitely guilty of child abuse, both mental and emotional, made all the worse for its subtlety."

Mycroft takes a deep breath. Suddenly he feels in over his head. Not a very common feeling for Mycroft Holmes.

"In your own case, John - "

 _Enough._  John leans forward, his hands clasped. "We aren't talking about my childhood experiences, Mycroft. My life is not on the table here."

His mouth has gone dry again but he doesn't even glance at the tea service to his left.

"Mycroft, we're talking about Sherlock's childhood. We are talking about what you are inferring may be a case of ongoing psychological torture at your father's hands. What if your father used this accident that occurred to this Ms. Henderson? What if your father is not guilty in any way concerning that occurrence, but used it to his advantage? How simple to convince a small child that he might be responsible for his beloved nurse's death or, alternately, that if he persists in certain, let us say, unwanted behaviors, that a similar occurrence might befall him? Or someone else he cares for? His mother? Or beloved older brother, perhaps? And what would be the end result of years of such treatment? Particularly once he is a teen and old enough to make rather disastrous choices for himself? What then, Mycroft?"

Mycroft stares at him.

**OooOooO**

Regina crouches next to her youngest son, her hand crumpled around the small plastic bag. Sherlock has not removed his palm from her hand.

The two stare into each other's eyes. Regina's vision blurs and she glances away.

"Sherlock," she murmurs. He abruptly releases his mother's hand as if scalded. She immediately lets go of her grip on the small bag. It rests on the carpet next to him. Neither of them look at it.

"Sherlock, son," she begins. "I wanted to—"

"Wanted what, Mother? To catch me in the act? It would hardly be the first time, would it?" He shakes his curly head and she looks to the side, unable to meet his steady gaze.

He regards his female parent, whose beautiful face is just inches from his own. "Or perhaps you came here to go over more wedding arrangements? Arrangements that could just as easily have been taken care of by phone or email?"

Regina bites her lip and ducks her head again. Finally, she raises her eyes to his. "Son, I came here to talk with you. To just  _talk_. Nothing more. I had no ulterior motives."

He smiles darkly. "I would say it's a bit too late for both of us on that score, Mother. Wouldn't you?"

He picks up the small packet, drops it in his pocket, then rises to his feet.

She straightens up slowly. He bends his head to regard his parent and frowns. His head throbs in agony now and his vision blurs. He lifts one hand to brush his long fingers through his unruly curls. Regina sees the line of healing red marks that encircle the pale wrist. She looks up into her son's eyes. And blanches. Tentatively, she puts out one slim hand to place it on her son's wrist. Sherlock does not move but his eyes narrow.

Behind them, the sky turns a menacing shade of grey.

At the last second, she drops her hand and deliberately walks around him, in order to cross to the windows. She pulls both sets of drapes shut against the oncoming storm.

Regina stands there for a moment, her hands resting on the smooth damask, her back to the room and to Sherlock, then straightens her shoulders and turns back to him once more.

"Son? I only wanted to see you. To see if we could speak with each other. Without old hurts and bad memories getting in the way."

He regards his female parent curiously for a long moment, during which Regina holds her breath. Then he nods, once. "Very well, Mother."

He lifts his left hand and holds the photograph out to her, holding it gingerly by the edges. Regina looks from the photograph, startled, up into his dark grey eyes.

"Where did you get this, Sherlock?"

Without answering her, he hands her the news clipping. She scans it quickly, and all blood drains from her face. She looks back up at him in anguish.

"Sherlock, I had no intention of you ever reading this –" she begins.

"And why would that be? Mother?" He adds the honorarium as an afterthought. Her heart splinters as she stares into his stormy eyes.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft comes to his feet and turns to the windows. He stares at the sky for a moment, then turns back to John. Both men stand a scant few feet from each other, Mycroft with his hands in the pockets of his trousers. John with his fists clenched loosely by his side. They regard each other with interest.

"John, what you are proposing, is disturbing in its implications."

"Disturbing, Mycroft? I'll tell you what's disturbing. Disturbing is finding out that your fiancée may – and I use the word 'may' here, Mycroft – have been the target of years of considered torture on the part of his male parent. And not a single human being in his immediate family noticed. With the possible exception of his nurse – now deceased."

John tilts his head at Mycroft in interest. "I find that last fact particularly interesting, Mycroft. Don't you? But as you say, it's all speculation, isn't it?"

"John, you've lived with my brother, first as a flat mate and now as his life partner, for over two years. Have you seen any signs, any indications in Sherlock's speech or memories, anything in his physical mannerisms or –"

"If you're going to stand there and ask me if Sherlock ever exhibits behavior that could be considered outside the pale, Mycroft, than I would say that you are the one whose gone round the twist here. Of course, he's exhibited such behavior. He's Sherlock Holmes. Brother of Mycroft. The most powerful man in this hemisphere – no, don't squirm Mycroft – I meant it as a compliment, of sorts."

Both men regard each other. John steadies his breathing as he stares at the elder Holmes brother. He nods once.

"As I say, the man who has had me virtually kidnapped on several occasions and taken elsewhere just to have a little chat. All of which center around his younger brother and what my intentions are concerning same. All of which are deliberate attempts to gather personal information about his brother. Mycroft Holmes, who has installed a rather impressive surveillance system over and around his own younger brother's flat."

John begins to pace, up and down the length of the library, as he continues to talk. His anger begins to spill forth and he doesn't think his chest can contain the fury that seems to build with each crash of thunder from outside the Holmes library windows.

Mycroft remains where he is and watches him pace, his steel eyes narrowed.

John turns back to Mycroft. "He's Sherlock Holmes, son of Regina Holmes, who has managed to keep most memories of her youngest son's early life repressed in such a stupendous fashion, that her son begins to experience horrific migraines when he's been on the company estate for less than two hours, for Christ's sake! Sherlock hasn't had a stinking migraine for months, Mycroft. All my work, all my care – blown away with one visit to the old family home."

John stops and waves a hand that manages to encompass not only the Holmes library, the thousands of bound volumes that surround them on the walls, but also the house itself and the grounds outside the darkening windows.

Mycroft straightens up to his full height and regards John Watson curiously. His voice has gone cold.

"John, what our mother has done has been done in Sherlock's best interests. She has, at all times, put his welfare foremost, before her own."

John stops a few feet in front of Mycroft. He crosses his arms over his chest. "I have no doubt that she – and you – see it that way, Mycroft. And if I had been in the same position, who's to say I wouldn't have made similar choices concerning Sherlock's welfare. That is not the issue here."

"Then what is the issue, John?"

John swipes one steady hand through his bright hair. "Good grief, Mycroft. The issue here is simple: is Sherlock a victim of ongoing psychological torture, mental and emotional, at the hands of his male parent? And how do we prove, or disprove, that hypothesis? And if the answer is yes, then what? Where do we go from here? Do I take Sherlock and go back to Baker Street, marry him in a few weeks, and get on with our lives as if nothing is amiss?"

Mycroft frowns down at John.

John spreads his hands out in a gesture. "Do I get him to Maggie Oakton and Galen Dennison, either or both, and how do I convince him to even go talk with them? And to what purpose? What purpose would be served, Mycroft?"

John sits suddenly in his chair and stares at his booted feet. "None of this surfaced until we came here to this house."

He looks up at his brother-in-law. "Mycroft, I've been here to this estate on two separate occasions. We never slept here. They were day visits, in and out. But at no time did Sherlock exhibit the marked behavior I've seen in him in the scant 24 hours we've been on the Holmes family grounds, here in this house."

John sits back and crosses one ankle over the other knee. He drums on his armrest, thinking furiously.

"Hell, Mycroft, I can't exorcise a house of its demons. You say your father is 'no longer in the picture.' You tell me he made a deal with your mother. And that deal includes the rather unsavory fact that he is still, to all intents and purposes and according to every letter of the law, married to your mother. To Sherlock's mother. What's to keep him from waltzing back in here any moment? Do you have surveillance on the man? And I use the term loosely. I think the honorarium of 'monster' here is more appropriate."

Mycroft considers John Watson, then sits in his chair opposite his brother's intended.

"No, John, surprising as it may sound to you, I do not have surveillance on our father."

John stares at him as if he doesn't believe him.

"That's not – that's just impossible, Mycroft. Of course, you're keeping tabs on him. With his history around Sherlock, you'd have to be."

John tilts his head to stare at the elder Holmes son. "What aren't you telling me, Mycroft? Because there is something. I know there is."

Mycroft taps one finger over and over again on his armrest. He contemplates his hand for a moment, then looks at John.

"John, you are correct in your assumption that there was a time I had, let us call them feelers, out for my father, in order to ascertain not only his whereabouts but his current state of affairs. But all of that ended two years ago. Just before you came on the scene, as a matter of fact, John."

John frowns, disbelieving. "How, Mycroft? How did that end?"

Mycroft stares at him. "John, would you believe me when I tell you that for the past two years, I have had no idea where our father is, who he's with, what he's doing or has done, or where he may be at this very moment in time?"

**OooOooO**

Sherlock stands in front of his mother, his eyes narrowed. She takes the photograph from him and stares at it. Then she looks up.

"Son? How long have you had this in your keeping?"

He waves one hand at the far wall. She glances at the hole where the light switch cover used to be. And nods.

"Inventive, son. I would never have suspected that particular hiding place."

"When was that photograph taken, Mother? I obviously felt it was of importance or I would never have taken steps to preserve it in such a manner. As a matter of fact, I barely have memories of doing so."

He plunges his hands in the pockets of his jeans and rocks slightly on his heels, all the while observing his mother's actions.

Regina stares down at the photo. Her beautiful grey eyes narrow in pain.

"This was taken when you were five years old, Sherlock. I took it myself."

She looks up at him, then holds the photograph out to her son.

He takes it gingerly on one palm and glances at it again, before dropping it carefully into his shirt pocket. He nods. "I surmised as much as that would explain why you weren't in the photo with the rest of us."

He holds out the news clipping. "And can you explain this as easily?"

She does not take the clipping from him but turns away from him and crosses her arms over her chest. She deliberately does not watch Sherlock watch her.

"That event occurred when you were ten years old, Sherlock. I—"

"I can still count Mother, and yes, that much is obvious." He frowns down at the news article, slightly yellow with age. Then he carefully folds it up and places it back in the small plastic bag. He shoves the bag in his shirt pocket along with the photograph.

He looks at his mother, as if seeing her for the first time.

"I have few memories of my father. You and Mycroft have seen to that. Yet it is interesting that the one memory I am given has nothing to do with me and everything to do with the two of you."

"Sherlock, we felt, Mycroft and I - No. That isn't the truth."

Regina swallows and lifts her head to look her son directly in the eyes. "I felt that given the disturbing nature of the event, that you be kept in the dark about this particular occurrence. You had, after all, been rather ill and hospitalized when these events occurred. I felt no reason to remind you of that time by discussing distasteful legal procedures with my ten-year-old son."

"What procedures, Mother? It states here that you and father separated. That he left England, but that he denied you a divorce. I see no legal procedures here. Just an interesting news article that a school friend cut out and gave me one day at school. If that had not occurred, I would never have known that you separated from my father and that he had been forced to leave the country."

"Chose to leave the country," Regina says quietly

"Forced, Mother. I'm not a blithering idiot. I can read between the lines here."

Sherlock shuts his eyes momentarily against the onslaught of pain in his head, then opens them to encounter the most sympathetic gaze he has ever seen in his mother's eyes. And he has absolutely no idea what to do with that. Abruptly, he turns and begins to pace, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

"There are so many gaps in my memory, Mother. And all of them concern my father, our father I should say. Although my elder brother has never seemed to be overtly affected by his disappearance. I have never had this conversation with Mycroft, other than to inquire, that one time and one time only, where our father had gone. As you say, I had just gotten out of hospital and returned to my home. To find my male parent gone. Utterly vanished."

Sherlock stops pacing in front of his book shelves. He regards the many treasured volumes with grim intensity. He turns to regard his mother where she stands, her hands by her side.

"I have had no word, no dealings, no contact of any sort with my father in all these years, Mother. None whatsoever. And I've been content with that. More or less. Until now."

She raises one beautiful eyebrow. "Until now? What has occurred that has brought this to the forefront, Sherlock?"

He regards her with grim intensity. "You, Mother. You have occurred. And your absolute insistence that John and I come down here for the weekend to go over wedding plans. A visit that was neither necessary nor called for."

Regina's eyes widen. "Sherlock, I can assure you, the only reason I expected you and John here this long weekend was to discuss your wedding arrangements."

"Truly, Mother? Because nothing has occurred here that couldn't have been handled over the phone, as I said before."

"Then what is the 'real reason' as you put it, son?" Regina's voice is suddenly weary. She really needs to lie down. And soon.

He stares at her with interest. "The real reason, Mother, is that this is one of the last occasions you will ever have to hold any type of sway over my life. Bloody hell!"

Regina recoils slightly from the violence in his tone.

"Bloody hell, woman. I'm over 30 years old. I have a career, a damned good one, and a fiancée. We have a good life at Baker Street. With John, I've been able to put certain demons to rest."

He stops pacing and moves to stand directly in front of his mother. He looks down at her and realises that her height is nearly John's height, without the benefit of heels. He smiles with grim determination.

"Until my subconscious mind decided to wake up and smell the coffee, so to speak, things were fine. And it's all tied up, all of it, the nightmares, the headaches, all tied to this blasted house." He waves his hand to include his immediate surroundings.

He looms over Regina and stares into her grey eyes. It is a testament to her fortitude that she regards him with cool intent and does not take a step back at the close intrusion.

"Mother, I am sorry for the way things are between us. I truly am. But I don't see them changing any time soon. And when you continue to deliberately withhold information about my father, what do you expect from me? Just what outcome did you expect from this weekend in paradise, hmm?"

They stare at each other. Suddenly, Sherlock winces and raises one hand to his head.

"Oh, bloody hell!" He groans aloud in agony.

Regina's eyes widen and she hurries over to grab the small chair at Sherlock's old writing desk. She brings it forward and gently pushes down on her son's shoulder until he sits. He sighs and sits, although the chair is quite short and his knees are at a ridiculous height.

Regina kneels next to Sherlock and places one slim hand on his wrist. "Son, please. Please believe me, when I say that I never –"

He glances into her eyes and winces again in pain. "Mother, I want to believe you. I truly do. But until you tell me what happened to my father and why, I am very much afraid things will have to remain estranged between us."

He winces again in pain and raises one slightly shaking hand to his head. It's his left hand and she notes the faint tremor there.

Regina Holmes stares at her son's hand, at his long musician's fingers, at the marks around his wrists, and then raises her head to stare into his grey-green eyes.

"Sherlock," she murmurs. "Sherlock, I cannot. Please, son. Please believe me if I could tell you, I would do so."

He stares down at her. And frowns.

**OooOooO**

"I could be wrong, Mycroft, but I  _think_ that's none of your business."

"I beg to differ, John."

"Beg all you want, Mycroft. I'm not having this conversation with you about Sherlock. Not when he's not in the room to participate."

John comes to his feet, as does the elder Holmes brother. "Not ever, as a matter of fact."

Both men stand. John regards Mycroft with an intense stare.

"Are we done?"

"You tell me, John."

The two men look at each other. John pivots on his heels and leaves the library.

Mycroft Holmes watches him go. And raises one imperious eyebrow

**OooOooO**

Regina hurries back from Sherlock's and John's room with a cold compress. She presses it against his forehead and holds it in place.

Sherlock shakes his head at her, then lifts his hand to hold the cool cloth against his aching eyes. The quiet sound of determined footsteps reaches them.

"What's going on here? Sherlock, you okay?"

Both of them look up. John Watson stands at the entrance to Sherlock's childhood room.

And Mycroft Holmes stands directly behind him.

Regina looks into John Watson's dark blue eyes. And moves away from her son to allow him access. She goes to stand in the doorway, next to Mycroft.

John bends down and places one warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

The detective looks up into his soldier's dark blue eyes. They are so close, John can see the faint reddish highlights in his lover's dark curls.

"John?"

"Yeah, I'm here."

"Headache's back, John," Sherlock says. His voice is a hushed whisper, his words meant only for the two of them.

John looks into the mercuric eyes and sees the obvious pupil dilation, the small line between the dark brows. He feels rather than sees the faintest of tremors in Sherlock's left hand and frowns.  _Something odd about that. Later for that._

John takes Sherlock's left hand in his. He tugs gently and Sherlock comes to his feet.

His hand remains in John's grasp. John nods at him. He keeps his voice purposefully low.

"We're going to take care of the headache, Sherlock."

"I can't go back to our room right now, John."

His soldier momentarily shuts his eyes at the desperate tone in Sherlock's low voice.

"I understand. The storm hasn't hit yet. What say we go for a quick walk, down to the stream?"

Sherlock nods gently, never takes his eyes off John's face. "I took two of the pills, John."

"It's okay; I would have given them to you myself."

Sherlock nods again but makes no effort to leave the room. He is very well aware that his Mum and Mycroft stand in the doorway. He keeps his eyes on John and John alone. Abruptly, Mycroft clears his throat, and touches his mother on the shoulder.

"Mummy?"

Regina Holmes turns from the sight of her son as he stares into John Watson's eyes and walks back into the hallway. Her vision blurs and she might stumble except Mycroft puts out one supporting hand to guide her down the hall.

The two men are left alone.

"Come on, then," John says. He releases Sherlock's hand. As he stands, he glances at the far wall. And at the obvious hole where the light switch used to be. He looks down at the floor at the broken cover. Puts two and two together. And grimaces.

"John." Sherlock holds out his right hand and drops something into John's open palm, then gently closes the soldier's fingers over.

John feels the small packet, glances down at the powder that is faintly discolored in hue. He nods.

"Okay. I'll take care of it," he says quietly. He turns to precede Sherlock out of the room but the detective puts one long hand on his shoulder.

John turns back to encounter the pain in the crystalline eyes.

"John, you have to know, I would never have –"

"I know that," John says. "Besides, this stuff is old, Sherlock, probably broken down. You would have had a hell of a reaction or at the very least just got sick from it."

"Understood," the detective says. "Just as long as you know, John, I wouldn't have used. It was the other packet I was after."

"I know that. Come on, you."

John drops the small packet in his pocket and notes the slight crinkle it makes. If this is cocaine, it's incredibly old. Probably been in that wall for years.

He turns again, then feels rather than hears a small object under his booted feet. John bends down, picks up the round object and stares at it. He drops it in the pocket of his trousers. Sherlock never notices.

The detective follows John out into the corridor. He leaves the wet compress sitting on the small chair.

Outside the room, John looks up at Sherlock. "Give me a sec, okay?"

Sherlock looks down into his eyes, nods once. "Okay." He leans against the wall outside his old room and shuts his eyes.

John walks quickly to their room, bends over the toilet and tears into the packet. He flushes the substance, then uses a pair of nail clippers to cut the small plastic packet up into tiny pieces. He flushes those, too. Then he washes his hands thoroughly. Finally, he fills a glass with water, and then stands there, over the sink, and stares at his own reflection in the mirror.

His eyes fill.

Abruptly, he scrubs his hand over his eyes, then splashes them with water from the taps. He goes out again, pulling their door to behind him.

He walks back up to Sherlock, who still leans against the wall, his hands plunged in the pockets of his short leather jacket.

"Drink this, Sherlock."

The detective opens his eyes, regards his soldier, then puts out one hand to take the glass of water. He grimaces, but drinks it all. John nods and takes the glass. He bends to set it on the floor next to the wall, then takes Sherlock's arm.

"Come on. It should be cooler outside. We can get in a small walk before the rain hits. Might help your head."

"John –"

John shakes his head. "No need. Save it until we're out of the house, okay?"

"Okay, John."

"Then let's go."

The two of them make it down the stairs and out the front door without being accosted by anyone, either Mycroft, Regina or any of the staff.

**OooOooO**

John doesn't walk away from the manor. He stalks. Which is a good thing as it slightly lengthens his stride and enables him to keep up with his fiancée's long stride. The two men are over the first hill and heading for the far stream before John is even aware of his immediate surroundings. As he walks, he keeps his hands in the pockets of his jacket. It's warm out, but ever since they've arrived at the Holmes estate, John has felt a definite chill.

He makes his way over the next small hill and glances up at the farthest small bridge. The sky over their heads is a myriad of shades, purple, grey, dark grey and here and there small bits of deepening blue tinged with violet. Twilight – and the storm – is nearly upon them.

Both men walk in silence until they reach the first small bridge. Sherlock leans against the railing for a moment, he winces slightly at the pain in his head. He doesn't speak to John, not at first. John nods and crosses to the detective's side. He, too, leans on the railing, hands clasped and watches the water as it rushes below them. It's summer, but now and then he sees a leaf float past that has clearly changed color. Perhaps they are in for an early autumn.

" _With any luck,_   _we'll have one hell of an early snow storm and no one by the name of Holmes, other than my Holmes, will be able to make their way to Baker Street."_

It's something to hope for, he thinks.

John puts one hand back in the pocket of his jacket and withdraws something. He holds it out to Sherlock.

"Here," he says gruffly. Sherlock glances down. John holds a single cigarette and a lighter on the palm of his hand.

Sherlock looks into the dark blue eyes, nods his thanks, takes the cigarette, and lights up without a word.

John contemplates him silently, then shakes his head at what he knows would, under normal circumstances, be a danger night.

_At least here, the most damage he can do is with cigarettes. And he's just smoked the last one._

 The detective nods. He smokes in silence.

There is a small plop and the cigarette Sherlock has just finished hits the stream. John watches as it floats past.

"Well?" The deep baritone is harsh in the open air. Devoid of nuance.

"Well." John says quietly.

A slight rustle of movement and Sherlock leans against the railing next to John. His hands fold around the rough wood.

Neither man speaks for a moment.

Then – "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

The taller man doesn't even turn his head, he just continues to watch the stream. When his voice comes, it's tired.

"Why, John? None of this is your fault. None of it has anything to do with –"

"Sherlock Holmes, I swear to Almighty God, if you finish that statement –"

"I was just going to point out, John, that nothing that has happened before – you – us – has anything to do with you. "

Sherlock straightens and puts his hands back in his pockets. He glances around, looks over the small stream into the woods. He deliberately does not turn to look back at the Holmes estate. "It's ancient history. The Holmes family, in all its fucked up glory."

John doesn't reply at first. He just watches the water. He shuts his dark eyes and takes a breath, while he counts slowly. When he reaches ten, he gives it another five seconds before speaking.

"Sherlock, whatever touches you does affect me. And I don't care if it occurred a month before we met or a year –" John straightens up and turns to face the detective. "Or twenty fucking years. If it's affected you, hurt you in any way, then –"

"Then what, John? What do you expect to do about any of this?" The glorious voice has become smaller somehow, more ordinary. John stares slightly up at Sherlock.

"If you have to ask me that –"

"John, I –"

"Damn it, Sherlock, stop interrupting. Let me finish a bloody sentence, all right?"

John turns back to the water and looks into the woods beyond. "I had a crap childhood, okay? Anything you want to ask me about that, just fucking ask, Sherlock. In fact, anything you want to ask about anything, it's all on the table, Sherlock."

John glances up at the dark curls as they bend over the railing again. He looks at the pale profile next to him and shakes his head.

"This has been one-sided and it's my fault. I'm the one who hasn't been forthcoming, Sherlock. Not you. You've done pretty darn well, considering. So if there's stuff you need to know, ask me. I'll tell you everything I can."

"And if this 'stuff' as you put it, crosses your self-imposed boundaries?" Sherlock watches another gold leaf float past.

"If it crosses my bloody boundaries, I'll still tell you. I might be angry as hell but damn it, I'll tell you, Sherlock."

The detective considers his soldier's words. Then nods.

"Fair enough, John."

"Fine. Then we're clear."

"Yes, I would say we're clear, John."

"Sherlock, about what happened earlier with your mother –"

"John, just wait."

The detective straightens again but keeps his hands around the rough wood railing. John glances upward. A faint breeze plays among the dark curls, then tumbles them around Sherlock's face. The last remnant of sunlight finds its way to the dark curls and tinges them auburn. Something funny happens to John's insides. He sighs and looks into the woods beyond the water.

He waits. Both men hear the rumble of thunder. Closer now.

"John, what you said a minute ago. About answering my questions. You meant that, right?"

"Every damned word."

Sherlock nods. He stands straight and puts his hand in his shirt pocket. He fingers the two objects there, the photograph and the plastic bag, comes to a decision, then pulls them both out.

He holds the photo out to John. Who takes it on his palm. But before he can look at the photograph, Sherlock places one cool hand over the picture.

"John, I fully intend to take you up on that offer. But now I need to show you something. I need to understand, John. And you can't help me with that. Any of that. But you can listen."

John looks up into the grey-green eyes. A bit of his heart breaks. He nods. "I'll listen, Sherlock."

"Good." Sherlock withdraws his hand and John looks down at the photograph. He ignores the fold lines and stares at the picture. Then he looks up at Sherlock.

"I knew he resembled you but I had no idea –"

"You've got it wrong way round, as usual, John. I resemble him."

John bends his head to again stare at the photograph. He glances incredulously from the photograph to Sherlock and back again. He frowns at the too familiar head of tumbled curls and wide cheekbones, pale skin and full lips.

Nicholas Holmes stands in the exact center of the photograph, staring intently at the photographer. His right hand is on his older son's shoulder and his left rests on a very young Sherlock's shoulder.  Both Mycroft and his father, Nicholas, look somber.  But in little Sherlock's case, his smile is joyous, mischievous.  John just saw that same grin, a scant hour ago, in the photograph in the library.

He stares.

Other than the obvious glowing copper shade of Nicholas Holmes' hair, John could be looking at a recent photograph of Sherlock himself.

Over their heads, the thunder rumbles. And the heavens split open.

**OooOooO**

  **Nicholas Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock Holmes**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This gorgeous work is the creation of my wondrous Beta, Sherlock'sScarf.
> 
> Please visit her Deviant Art page to check out her other wonderful works of Art ! Here is a link to her Deviant Art portfolio.
> 
> http://www.deviantart.com/?qh=&section=&global=1&q=Sherlock%27sScarf


	12. Chapter 12

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 12**

"I have dreamt in my life, dreams that have stayed with me ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the color of my mind. And this is one: I'm going to tell it - but take care not to smile at any part of it."  
― Emily Brontë,  _Wuthering Heights_

 

"I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand & the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep & there are no words for that."  
― Brian Andreas,  _Story People: Selected Stories & Drawings of Brian Andreas_

**PROMISES: TWO MEN IN LOVE – GOING AT IT FOR ALL THEY ARE WORTH.**

**This ongoing work depicts two adult males in a fully consenting adult relationship, with all its connotations. At times, this relationship borders on extreme possessiveness – on both sides. If any of this gives you pause, please look away.**

**WARNINGS: Triggers for references to past child abuse; psychological torture; PTSD. Disturbing dreams; visions.**

Author Note:  If you have not already done so, please see the amazing photo manip, posted at the end of Chapter 11, that Sherlock'sScarf created for this chapter and the last.  

**OooOooO**

 

 

**He stares.**

**Other than the obvious glowing copper shade of Nicholas Holmes' hair, John could be looking at a recent photograph of Sherlock himself.**

**Over their heads, the thunder rumbles. And the heavens split open.**

**OooOooO**

Startled by the booms that are now directly overhead, John glances at Sherlock. Both men look at each other, their eyes widen, they turn as one - and run for it. And as they tear towards the estate, Sherlock's long legs eating up the rolling terrain and John keeping pace just behind, the doctor manages to hurriedly slip the photograph into his jeans pocket to keep it from harm.

John has momentary qualms about the increase in Sherlock's heart rate making the headache worse, but there's nothing to be done. He has to get him out of the rain and wind and into the cool darkness of their bedroom.

And dear God, does he have questions.

At any other time, John thinks, they would be laughing together as they attempted to outrun the summer storm.

But not today.

John brushes one hand over an amazing bloom as they tear by the front gardens. The petals of the flower – he has no idea what type it is – feel like damp silk. A pang shoots through him at the thought that soon this beauty might be destroyed by the ravages of the storm. Then all thoughts of flowers and gardens and silken red blooms are swept aside as the heavens open up and dump gallons of cold water on their heads.

They race through the open garden gate and stop at the side door, chests heaving and shirts soaked. The door has been left open, obviously to enjoy the coming storm.

"Good heavens, Sir! Here."

The young woman busily emptying the dishwasher grabs two snowy tea towels and hands them to John. John nods his thanks, then tosses one to Sherlock. Sherlock stands just outside in the garden, under the overhang, and towels his curls.

John does the same, as he watches Sherlock. The detective winces, then rubs the towel over his shoulders. Finally, he just stops and leans back against the brick wall, eyes closed.

John throws both towels onto the kitchen counter, then lays one hand on Sherlock's arm.

"Head?" He asks quietly.

Sherlock nods. "Better than it was. I think the fresh air helped." He speaks in a low murmur.

He also lies.

"More likely the water I made you drink," John says, just as quietly, not deceived at all.

"Or what we just ingested by osmosis," Sherlock says, trying to grin. He fails miserably. He leans his head back against the brick wall and shuts his eyes. His hands lay flat against the wet bricks, on either side of him, and John can see the white fingertips as they grasp the rough surface.

John tugs on his wrist. "We're going through the kitchen, then on up to our room, okay? Can you make it that far without –"

"John. Please. I have made it a practice not to vomit on Mummy's clean kitchen floors, since the night I became more than a bit inebriated at the Holmes Christmas Gala."

John raises a pale eyebrow. "Good to know. Later for Gala stories. Let's go, then."

Sherlock takes a breath, then opens his eyes to look at John. "John, I cannot abide these headaches. Please. John."

His soldier nods sympathetically. "You're hungry and tired and you're exhausted. Come on. I promise you, you're going to feel better in the morning." He does not mention the real reason for Sherlock's headaches.

Sherlock winces at the persistent pounding in his skull. He can barely see John through the red haze of pain. He lifts one hand and his cool fingers take hold of John's wrist.

"How do you know?" he whispers.

"Because I'm going to take care of you. Come on."

Sherlock pushes off the brick wall and follows his soldier through the kitchen maze. He hears John greet and being greeted in return and he nods at the "Sir's" directed toward him once or twice, but his only thought is to get away from everything and everyone and lie down in a dark room.

A young man working at the counter-top glances up at both of them, smiles, then goes back to his task, which from what John can tell, involves chopping small mountains of vegetables.

They quickly make their way through the mansion, once again without being accosted by staff or family.

"We're at the stairs."

"Okay, John." Sherlock puts his hand on the railing and climbs the stairs slowly, like an old man, one hand on the rail and one step at a time. John stays with him.

At the top of the stairs, John touches Sherlock on the wrist and the detective obediently turns left. They walk down the hall. John frowns as they approach the door to Sherlock's childhood room, but it's closed now and the detective does not indicate he is aware of his surroundings, nor does he slow or falter as they approach, then pass, the door.

"Good," thinks John. He pushes open the door to their room and sees at a glance that once again, someone has put the room to rights. He could get used to this very quickly, if only they could somehow transport this invisible helpmate to Baker Street.

He places his hand on the small of Sherlock's back, to urge him into their room. Once inside, John shuts, then locks their door.

Sherlock crosses the large room to sit on the side of their bed. He shuts his eyes and bows his head for a minute, then sighs and begins to struggle with his shirt buttons.

John goes to the windows, makes certain they are open several inches in order to hear the rain and get some fresh air, then hurries around the room, clicking off all the lamps except the one on his side of the bed. He comes back to Sherlock to help him get out of the damp shirt. John feels the faint crackle of the small plastic bags in the shirt pocket. He retrieves the photograph from his jeans pocket and replaces it in its bag without glancing at it again, then carefully places them both on the bedside table.

Later for questions.

He hurriedly gets his lover out of the confines of shirt, socks, boots, and jeans. Once Sherlock is nude except for the silk drawers, John ushers him into bed and covers him over with just the sheet, in order to keep his body from becoming overheated.

"John," Sherlock whispers.

"Shut your eyes. I'll be right back."

John crosses into the opulent bathroom, then comes back out with a cold compress. He leaves the light on but pushes the door nearly closed in order to minimize light in their room.

He places the compress over Sherlock's eyes. The detective groans with relief at the cool cloth. He raises one hand to hold it against his forehead and closed eyes.

"I can't give you anything yet, Sherlock. You took those two pills earlier. But soon, I promise." John says quietly. He keeps his hand on Sherlock's wrist; the pulse races under his fingertips. He frowns and feels more than a bit of guilt at the mad dash across the front lawns. But he had to get Sherlock away from the house for a short while, if only to prove a point about the migraines. Sherlock definitely seemed to feel a bit better at the stream. The pain seems to have returned in full force, however, now that he's back in the manor.

Sherlock holds the cold cloth against his eyes, then finally lets his hand drop to his side. He sighs once, deeply.

John stands by their bedside and just looks at the other man. Usually, looking at Sherlock is a pleasure. Now, however, John frowns as he watches Sherlock toss slightly under the covers, attempting to get comfortable. His mind grapples with the revelations he learned earlier. He shakes his head and crosses back to the bathroom, tearing through the buttons of his own shirt as he goes. Three minutes later, teeth brushed, wearing only a cotton tee and boxers, John climbs into bed next to his love.

He checks the time on his watch, sets an alarm to remind him of Sherlock's next dose of migraine meds, then removes it. He deliberately turns the watch over and reads the inscription on the other side first, his daily ritual. He places his watch carefully on the bedside table, and clicks off the light, then gently scoots next to Sherlock, until their hands brush. Sherlock's skin is cool, so he pulls the duvet over them both, then shuts his eyes.

"Time for a kip," he whispers.

"Okay, John." Sherlock keeps his eyes closed and attempts to regulate his breathing.

The two men don't speak to each other for a long while.

Restless, John lies there and goes over his conversation with Mycroft and all of its implications. In the dark coolness of their room, the former soldier frowns. And comes to a decision. The sooner he gets Sherlock away from these surroundings, the better. To hell with wedding plans and to hell with long weekends in the sodding countryside with Mummy – and Mycroft. And if there is a particular level of Hades reserved for monsters, John consigns Nicholas Holmes to it, alive and in chains, engulfed in flame.

The more he thinks of these things, the angrier he gets. And the less able to sleep.

Outside their little world, the main fury of the storm finally washes over the house. The soft afternoon light vanishes into amalgams of grey, as lightning flashes and thunder rolls. Occasionally, the very foundations of the aging manor seem to shake. John remains awake for all of it. Gradually, inexorably, the main front passes, leaving behind the soothing sound of a steady downpour. A wash of rain-cooled air blows inward through the open windows.

John's intense frustration seems to dissipate in the rain-washed breeze. He sighs and takes several deep breathes to calm his thoughts. Sherlock lies next to him, asleep at last.

John turns on his side so he can observe the arresting profile and dark curls whenever he wants. He reaches out with one hand and lightly encircles Sherlock's right wrist with his fingers. The detective doesn't react to the slight touch. His chest rises and falls peacefully. John sees a definite lessening of the pain lines between the closed eyes.

John falls asleep watching the steady pulse beat in Sherlock's neck.

John sleeps.

John dreams.

**OooOooO**

It is autumn. One in the not too distant future. How he knows this, John is not certain. He just knows.

The orchards are in full bloom; the apple trees heavy with fruit. He can smell the sweet tang on the breeze. He moves from his contemplation of the water that rushes under the bridge and turns toward the Holmes estate.

Slowly, he begins to walk over the rolling hills and watches as the manor comes closer. As he walks, John becomes aware that this simple movement, the placing of one foot in front of the other, has become sheer delight. Nothing hurts. Not his leg, with its overlapping wounds. Not his shoulder, which used to ache abominably, in cold and heat. And not his heart.

Nothing. Nothing hurts. He grins and picks up his pace, hands plunged in the pockets of his trousers.

When he can see the entire manor, he stops. And simply observes.

Several lawn chairs, some of them reclining, are placed off to one side. Two of these are occupied. Quilts are spread out on the grass, and he can see a collection of toys, books, balls, cricket bats, and several dolls that lay in a colorful jumble on one of them. A small table has been set to one side. It appears to be crowded with iced drinks and small plates of cakes and biscuits.

Three children chase each other in the deep green grass. The smallest of the three, a little girl in blue overalls and a bright pink shirt, attempts to keep up with her companions. She trips over her feet, too eager, and tumbles. Immediately, the two older children reverse course and come to her aid. The eldest, a young boy with messy dark curls, which glow a dark copper in the autumn sun, sighs and brushes off her coveralls.

She grins through the tears on her cheeks.

"Be more careful, okay?" he teases her.

She tosses her dark blonde hair, pulled up in two pigtails, and sticks her tongue out at him.

The other child, a boy somewhere in age between the other two, with straight dark hair and steel blue eyes, smiles at her with easy familiarity. His hand goes to the little girl's back pocket, he yanks out a ball cap, a bright turquoise in color with a green frog picked out in rhinestones, and jams it firmly down on her blonde head.

"The sun is hot today; wear your cap."

"Don't have to if I don't wanna."

The older boy sighs and crosses his arms over the chest of his worn tee shirt. "Yes, you do have to wear it. Grand-mere said so." The affectionate term for grandmother is spoken in French with an impeccable accent.

Something in his manner, in the way he stands with his arms crossed over his chest and regards her with utter seriousness, tugs at John's heart. Or perhaps it's the near translucent grey-green eyes and twisting, dark curls.

She pulls a face, then laughs and runs off. The two boys look at each other, shake their heads and race after her.

John hears a car drive up on the gravel. He looks from the three children up the slight hill to the far side of the manor. A car pulls up and one man and two young girls emerge. The girls begin running over the lawn toward the other three children, shrieking in delight. Their voices mingle and carry in the warm afternoon air.

It's a glorious autumn day, all the rarer for the warm air, the nearly cobalt sky with its feathery clouds and just the slightest hint of cooler breezes to come.

John smiles, then turns back to regard the occupants of the lawn chairs. His breath catches. One of the adults lying in the nearest of the reclining chairs, a male, with a throw over his long legs, turns in profile to regard the man who has just arrived. He looks at the five children, then shakes his head. He places a marker in the book in his hands and drops it to his side.

_Sherlock._

John comes up behind his love and marvels at the gray hairs in the dark mass of curls. Other than that and that the marble profile appears slimmer than before, he notes little difference in the detective.

He watches Sherlock – as Sherlock watches the children race after each other, fall, get back up and laughing, go careening off in another direction.

"She'll be fine, Sherlock," Regina says.

John turns his head to observe the Holmes matron who sits upright in one of the lawn chairs, her hair a complicated twist of shining white. She lifts her head from her own book, observes her younger son, then smiles indulgently as the children race over, to beg iced lemonades.

The man who got out of the car with the two girls strides steadily toward them, across the lawn, his hands in the pockets of his ancient trousers.

Greg Lestrade. Which means … John turns to regard the two girls for a second time. And his heart warms to the realization that here are Greg's two daughters, the youngest obviously in excellent health and growing like a weed, straight and tall, like her sister.

He glances around the lawn, as a thought occurs. He stands off to one side and notes that no one observes him at all. Well, that's to be expected. He's dreaming, right?

Still, John has the faintest of feelings, the barest inclination that someone stands afar off - and watches. He frowns as the merest of shadows passes over the sun.

As the D.I. comes up to them, the little girl in pink and blue runs over to Sherlock and clutches at his knees with two eager hands.

"Come and play, Papa," she demands.

Sherlock smiles slightly at her and his hand briefly rests on her dark blonde head. He regards the taller of the two young men as he runs over.

"Lessons?"

"Done, Papa. Ages ago."

Sherlock nods gravely. "You appear to have the makings of a small cricket team. I suggest you avail yourselves of the opportunity. The weather will not hold."

The young man, who John notes has Regina Holmes' beautiful grey eyes and aristocratic forehead, nods at Sherlock, seemingly impatient to be out of his presence, and grabs the little one's hand. "Come on, then."

Lestrade walks up to the small group, addresses Regina, then snags one of the lawn chairs. He turns it into the sun so he is facing both Regina and Sherlock.

"Mrs. Holmes."

She sighs. "Gregory, for the umpteenth time, it's Regina."

He smiles at her, then looks at the detective.

"Sherlock. How's the leg?"

The two men greet each other but John has no time for it. His world is rocked.

 _Papa!_   _Sherlock – a Papa?_

Incredulous, John glances around again, then looks at Lestrade, noting the D.I.'s hair is finally totally grey. Hands in his pockets, he idly turns to regard the manor in the near distance. He does not see himself. An odd feeling, one of near vertigo, overcomes him. The disturbing sense that he is being watched becomes stronger. He shudders slightly but resists the urge to turn and look back toward the woods.

He walks around Lestrade, the better to see Sherlock, and notes that none of the adults or children are aware of his presence. Just as it should be. Again – dream.

Except for the little girl, who glances up from her lemonade.

And squeals.

"Daddy!"

She drops her cup on the grass – lemonade and ice cubes go flying - and races toward him. John is perplexed; he is clearly not present in this scenario. He knows he is dreaming; not a rare event, he frequently has lucid dreams, has done since he was a teen, so the knowledge that he is dreaming does not bother him.

Still, no one should be able to see him - but this young child can.

She runs up to him and holds her arms up.

"Daddy! Daddy! Up. Up!"

Sherlock watches her, frowns, then glances around. Regina Holmes comes to her feet. Greg Lestrade automatically stands, as well. She ignores his offer of assistance and watches the child.

"What is it, sweetheart?" this uttered in a perplexed tone of voice.

Sherlock stares at his daughter as if she's lost her mind. His head lifts and his eyes search out the terrain beyond Lestrade's chair. He looks straight at John, more or less right into the setting sun.

John clearly sees Sherlock's face – and eyes - for the first time. How could he have thought the detective unchanged, except for a few gray hairs? Sherlock's face is thin, thinner than he has ever seen it, the sculptured cheekbones stand out. And his eyes – the beautiful eyes - are flooded with pain. They are near clouded with loss. His left hand trembles slightly by his side. John sees the shining ring of metal around the third finger of Sherlock's hand - and his eyes widen.

For the first time, John notes the slim cane that leans against the detective's chaise.

The book drops, unheeded to the grass.

The detective frowns, and looks straight at his daughter.

"What are you doing? Come back here this instant."

He comes to his feet, automatically reaching for the cane by his side. Greg Lestrade glances around at both Regina and Sherlock, then turns his head to look at the tiny child dressed in pink and blue. He frowns.

She shakes her pigtails at all of them, but never takes her eyes off John.

John notes that her eyes are dark blue, fathomless. Her hair is a wavy mix of dark and light blonde, like Harry's and his. She resembles nothing more than a very young Harriet Watson, except for her grin.

Her grin is all John.

" _No_ ," thinks John. " _Just. No. This cannot be_."

He looks from her eager face to Sherlock, winces at the utter distraught look on his love's face, then back down to the child. What is her name? No one has used her name.

She crosses her arms over her small chest and sticks out a determined chin. All the time, she keeps her dark blue gaze on John.

"No. I want Daddy! Daddy's here. All of you lied."

And she lifts her little arms up to John. John looks down at her – Sherlock's daughter – so obviously  _their_ daughter, then over at Sherlock. Again, he realises he is nowhere to be seen. His heart rate speeds up and he swipes suddenly damp palms along his trousers. He looks from Sherlock's stricken countenance to Regina's face, gone even paler in the late afternoon sun. Greg's face is shuttered; his eyes mute.

Oh.

_**OH.** _

John's heart does a slow turn in his chest and a sinking feeling of unremitting loss threatens to drown his soul. He blinks against sudden tears and realises he hates, utterly despises this dream.

_I need to wake up. I must wake up. Whoever you are, make this stop! Now. Please. Just – Please._

He raises one hand to place it gently on the blonde curls and tries to smile. He cannot  _quite_  feel the soft hair under his palm, but keeps his hand on her head nevertheless. He bends down to her height. And notes it's remarkably easy to make this movement. Whereas before …

"I'm John," he whispers.

She nods. "Daddy!"

John tries to swallow past the rock in his throat and winces. "I – can you see me? You can see me." Statement, not a question.

She nods solemnly. And bends forward to whisper to him, as if imparting secrets.

"Ma-mere told me you were gone to the Heaven. But I told them I saw you before, that time on the stair. No one believes me. They won't  _listen_ , Daddy! And you are right here. Up, Daddy. Up!" And she holds her arms out to him again.

John again notes her strong resemblance to his sister, the dark blue eyes and quick grin that are all his, and some bit of intrinsic stubbornness – something in the tilt of her head and tiny chin, that screams  _Sherlock_. His eyes widen and he nearly stumbles backward.

As dreams go, this one has rapidly become a mix of confusion – and heartache. He looks at the little girl – his daughter – and shakes his head sadly.

"I'm – I don't think I can pick you up," he says quietly.

She lowers her little arms and regards him thoughtfully, her head cocked to one side. The too familiar movement sends a frisson down John's spine.

John looks at her closely. He notes every aspect of her appearance, including her bright pink tee, the dull copper of her coverall fasteners, the bulging pockets, which speak of hidden treasures, to the frayed, grass-stained hems and brilliant socks – pink dots and green stripes. He smiles gently. Her trainers are scuffed and she digs one toe into the grass, a movement of sheer stubbornness, he surmises.

Sherlock moves to her side and bends down so he is on her level. John notes he favors one leg, hence the cane, and his movements are calculated, the measured movements of a sick man. John frowns. He barely recognises his love's voice as he addresses their daughter.

"What is it? What are you saying?"

She turns to him in a huff, one tiny hand on each hip. "Daddy! Can't you see him, Papa? It's Daddy. He's here."

Sherlock glances into her dark blue eyes, then turns his head and looks where she points, just a scant two feet away.

"Where?" his voice comes as a wheeze of pain. He looks straight at John.

John looks steadily back. And wishes to hell he'd wake up from this friggin' nightmare.

She sighs and straightens up to her full three feet plus. She reaches out and pats John's leg. He can barely feel her soft touch.

"Here, Papa. Daddy's right here. See?" She waves a tiny hand in a near languid gesture that is so familiar to John, his eyes blur.

She tilts her head up to John and he smiles down at her. And shakes his own head.

" _ **John."**_

"I think it's time we all went in for tea."

Regina's firm voice comes from behind Sherlock. She and Lestrade both stand close to the detective. She turns her head and regards the other children as they race after each other on the grass, shouting as they choose up sides. The tallest boy turns toward her. He holds a worn cricket bat in his hand.

"Rob, take them all inside, now, please, it's getting late."

John looks at the young boy as he listens to Regina.

_Rob. He tries to remember if he knows anyone named Rob or Robert. Unless … Rob …short for … Robbie?_

He regards his grandmother solemnly, then nods his dark curls. He rounds up the other children and they pick up toys and make a jumbled mess of the two quilts, as they argue over who's going to carry them in, and begin to make their reluctant way to the manor.

The smallest child remains, stubborn, standing in front of John. The two of them only have eyes for each other. Hers are filled with recognition and bright expectation. His are wide with ineffable sadness. And realization.

" _ **John."**_

"Come along, dear. Time for tea."

Regina puts one slim hand, slightly shaking, on the little girl's shoulder. She shrugs her grandmother's hand off and continues to face John, little arms crossed belligerently over her pink shirt. There are tiny pink rhinestones around the collar. John sees them flash in the late afternoon sun.

"Daddy is right here and I think all of you are horrid."

She begins to cry and scrubs at her eyes with one grubby hand.

"Come along now."

"No. I'm staying here with Daddy. And Papa."

Without turning his head, Sherlock says quietly, "Go in with your Grand-mere, there's a good girl. I'll be along shortly."

Regina takes her hand determinedly and begins to walk toward the manor. Lestrade follows slowly. He glances back over his shoulder at Sherlock, frowns, then follows the Holmes matron across the lawn, one bawling child in tow. She drags her small trainers on the grass and tugs back against Regina's hold on her, trying to get back to John.

John watches them go with a pang. He turns back to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock clears his throat, the beautiful voice gone hoarse. He straightens to his full height. John notes with sorrow that the detective bends slightly, as if not willing to put all his weight on the bad leg. He whispers and the harsh tone grates on John's ears.

John looks straight into the amazing eyes. Which stare directly at and through and beyond him.

"John? For the love of God, John – Please."

Sherlock holds out one slender hand, pale, trembling.

John puts out a hand and attempts to push back the errant curl that  _will_  fall over the pale forehead.

"Sherlock," he whispers.

Sherlock's pale eyes close and he sways where he stands. His hoarse whisper is a mockery of the gorgeous baritone John remembers.

"You have killed me John Watson. You have taken my soul. I told you I never had one, John. But I was wrong. Because you took it with you and left me in this hell – alone."

He opens the amazing eyes. And looks straight into John's dark blue ones.

"John. Please. If you're here, if any of this is possible … _ **he**_  told me. He said that you might … Please. John."

John blinks. Sherlock's ravaged tones go through him like a heavy knife, sinking slowly through his flesh to whittle away at his heart. Hot tears fall down his cheeks. He reaches out one hesitant hand toward his husband. And as he does so, he's more than aware that _Someone_  watches.

In John's dream, Sherlock shuts his eyes.

" _ **John!"**_

**OooOooO**

Mycroft seats himself in his favorite chair in the library, then pulls his mobile from his pocket. He glances at the number, nods.

"Mycroft Holmes. Gregory?"

The D.I.'s voice is hushed, obviously he is trying not to be overheard. Mycroft presses the phone to his right ear and stares across the room at the dark blue book that sits, with one other, on the shelf.

"Mycroft – I don't know how to thank you. I don't think you have any blinkin' idea of what you have done for us." The gruff voice has deepened, as if the D.I. is trying to hold his emotions in check.

Mycroft smiles, the slightest upturning of lips. John would recognize that smile as he sees it on Sherlock's face often enough.

"I am certain I don't know what you are talking about," he says gently. "I merely made a few phone calls on your – your daughter's behalf."

Greg Lestrade turns in the doorway of the hospital room to view the tiny form sleeping in the bed. The rag doll, Sally, is tucked in next to her and her favorite pink blanket, brought from home by her sister, covers her over. For the moment, she sleeps peacefully.

"Mycroft, this doctor you found for us …" He clears his throat and turns back to look out into the busy hospital corridor. "I should say doctors, Matthews and –"

"Ridgeson," supplies Mycroft. He tilts his head to one side and watches as Miriam comes in with the afternoon papers. She deposits them on the table next to him, whisks away his empty tea cup and departs, leaving the barest scent of lemon polish behind her.

"Yes. Both of them. They have a – blood marrow donor matched to – to Chrissie's – Chrissie's…" his voice fails him momentarily and he coughs once, loudly.

Mycroft takes pity on the man. Alone in the Holmes library, he shuts his eyes and tries to picture Lestrade as he grapples with this new information. He's in the child's hospital room, standing in the doorway. Obvious. He sighs.

"Greg. It was my pleasure. And please be assured that all you need, and I mean everything you might need, will be taken care of. I've left instructions with all –"

"Mycroft, I'm not a charity case," Lestrade begins, his voice gruff. He turns again to view his daughter, so tiny in the big bed, and his heart falters. He shuts his eyes against the vision. His sudden intake of breath is a near gasp.

Mycroft goes still. He hears the sigh and his lips purse. Honestly, the man is as stubborn as he has been led to believe.

"Charity does not enter into this, Gregory," he says quietly. "I have acquaintances on the boards of several children's hospitals. It's a wide network. I assure you, your daughter is not receiving any special treatment. But her case warrants that such treatment as she does receive be – escalated."

He pauses for a moment and listens to the other mans' breathing. If Lestrade will just park his stubborn nature for once and let him –

"All right, then. I – oh hell, Mycroft. Thank you. Thanks, mate. It's a piss poor Thank you, but –"

Greg looks up as a nurse comes toward him. He nods at her.

"Listen, there's someone here to – I've gotta go now. I'll be in touch."

He moves aside as the nurse, followed by a doctor Lestrade does not recognise, maneuver past him into his daughter's room. They both turn toward him, expectantly.

"If that is okay," he says gruffly into his phone.

"Nothing would give me more satisfaction. Please go take care of business. We'll talk when it's more convenient."

Mycroft rings off and lays his mobile on the table next to his elbow, the ends precisely lined up with the table edge. He sighs as if to dismiss the over-abundance of emotion, selects one of the afternoon papers, and settles in to read.

Lestrade drops his mobile into his pocket. And turns toward the new doctor, anguish and exhaustion showing in every line on his face.

The doctor regards Gregory Lestrade with gravity. Then holds out his hand.

"Detective Inspector? Nathaniel Ridgeson." He looks from the chart in his hand back to Lestrade. "I believe we've got work to do."

He shakes hands with the D.I.

And smiles.

For the first time in weeks, Gregory Lestrade allows himself to hope.

**OooOooO**

John rubs a hand over his eyes, then nods at Sherlock, who regards him solemnly, raised up on one elbow.

"Better now?" he asks.

"Yeah." John sighs, then frowns at the other man. "You're supposed to be resting. Your head –"

Sherlock winces. "I could use the pills now, John. But you were in obvious distress. Another bad dream?"

John swings his bare legs over the edge of the bed. He takes a deep breath, then stands, and looks at Sherlock, who just watches him.

"Yeah. Another one." He turns toward the room. "I'll bring your pills."

John's eyes widen and he suddenly rushes into the bathroom, barely shutting the door behind him. A moment later, Sherlock hears the sounds of a man being enthusiastically sick. He frowns.

"John?"

John flushes the toilet, then rinses his mouth and stands, chest heaving, with both hands on either side of the porcelain sink. Slowly, he lifts his head to gaze into his reflection. His eyes, red-rimmed, stare back at him.

He whispers in the quiet of the lavish room, so quietly the other man cannot overhear him.

"What in bloody hell was all that? Holy shite."

He bends to splash his eyes, then dries his face and shakes his head. Later for this shite. He opens the door and crosses the room.

Sherlock sits up, wincing, and watches John as he finds the bottle in his duffle bag, tilts out two of the tablets on his palm, then crosses back to hand them to the detective. He hands Sherlock a glass of water.

"All the water, Sherlock," John admonishes.

The detective nods and swallows the pills. He bends to place the glass on the table next to him, then pauses as he notes the tiny plastic bags that sit there.

He looks at them, frowns, then turns his head to glance up at John, who watches him.

"Must have been a particularly bad dream, John," Sherlock begins.

"Well, it's over now," John says gruffly. He leans to brush a curl back from Sherlock's forehead. "You haven't slept long. Can you manage a bit more? "

"I can try," Sherlock says, hesitantly. He glances at his watch. "They'll be setting out dinner soon. I'm not the least bit hungry, far from it, but you'll need to –"

"They can do whatever they like, Sherlock. We're eating here, in this room. I'm going down now to arrange that our dinner be brought up. And once the headache is gone for good, you will eat something."

Sherlock sighs. His hands grip the edges of the mattress as he looks down at his bare feet.

"Mummy won't like –" he begins.

"I don't give a tinker's damn what your mother likes or doesn't like, Sherlock. And that goes double for Mycroft. We're eating here in this room tonight. In the morning, if you feel better, we're packing up and getting the hell out of Dodge, as Maggie Oakton would put it."

Sherlock reaches one hand toward the small bags on the table, thinks better of it and drops his hand to his side. He raises his head to look into John's eyes.

"John, I would have agreed with you a few hours ago. But I believe I need to stay here for another day or at least –"

John frowns. "Sherlock, your migraines began when we got here, nearly to the moment. What can be so important that you're willing to keep suffering like this when we can just leave?"

Sherlock doesn't shake his head at John's words, the pain in his head is too severe for that. But he does incline his head slightly.

"You're right, John. But I cannot leave until I've discovered certain  _facts._  I do not anticipate seeing Mummy in the near future, other than at our wedding, and I have decided not to waste this opportunity."

John stares into the amazing eyes, dilated with pain, then shakes his head. He places one warm hand on Sherlock's shoulder and squeezes. He searches for words, then decides to hell with it. If Sherlock persists in this course of action, who is he to stop him? Besides, if the roles were reversed...

" _Well_ ," thinks John. " _They nearly are. Only dad never left. Not in the way Nicholas Holmes left. How would Harry's and my life be different? Where would we be now?"_

Out loud, all John says is, "Okay, then. We stick. But Sherlock, I promise you, if the migraines persist, it's a no go."

Sherlock's lips turn up in the slightest of smiles. His voice is hushed, but still manages to sound amused. "Are you aware that you often fall back onto military terminology when faced with a situation you do not like?"

"Damn straight," John Watson says.

**OooOooO**

John sees that Sherlock lies down in order to give the pills a chance. He renews the cold compress, then covers the other man over once again for warmth. He crosses the room to retrieve his clothes and dresses quickly, leaving the bathroom light on and the door ajar.

Outside their open windows, the rain has settled down. John suspects it will end before long. He leaves the windows open for fresh air.

"I'll be back shortly," he says quietly.

Sherlock, his eyes closed, barely nods. "Ummm."

John lets himself out of their room and shuts the door behind him.

He walks down the hall. As he comes level with the door to Sherlock's childhood room, he pauses. He looks at the doorknob, frowns. Then comes to a decision.

" _Just get on with it, Johnny boy."_

He turns the knob. The door is not locked.

John enters Sherlock's old room, his hand automatically reaching for the light switch as he does so.

The room is much darker as the evening has come on and the skies are dark with rain clouds. John crosses over and opens the drapes to let in as much light as possible, then he turns to regard the room.

He begins at one end, glances at the collections of bones, butterflies, rocks and minerals. He pulls books from the shelf and glances at the titles. Even as a young man, Sherlock was reading far beyond the normal reading level of most children. He places the books back on the shelf and notes that not a speck of dust is to be seen, other than a faint amount on the specimens that sit, arranged in macabre groups, on the shelves.

Here are the bones of a small cat, several birds, various rodents, and the complete skeleton of some animal John does not immediately recognise. A beaver perhaps?

John turns to regard the desk, more shelves, more specimens and notes the collection of magnifying glasses, ranged in order of size, that sit next to several books of natural history, criminology, science, mathematics and various languages. A chipped coffee mug holds a collection of sketching pencils, their points worn down.

John keenly notes the absence of a microscope and he winces at the recollection of his conversation with Sherlock a week earlier. He glances around again. Nope. No violins.

On the very end of one shelf, by itself, sits Paddington Bear. John smiles briefly and reaches out to pick up the stuffed toy. He runs his calloused finger tips over the raincoat and hat and gives the bear an affectionate squeeze. He idly wonders what are the odds of getting Regina to part with this. He'd like to take it home with them and wonders what Sherlock would think.

" _Probably think I'm bonkers. I doubt if he has any sentimental attachment to any of these things."_

Nevertheless, he wants to have something , some small part of Sherlock's childhood, to keep for his own, even if he ends up hiding it from the detective. He has no idea where these feelings spring from, but he thinks they began when he saw the photograph in the library, the photograph of Mycroft and a very young Sherlock Holmes. He wonders if the photo of Sherlock, so young and happy, had anything to do with his nightmare earlier.

Well, later for that, too.

John glances around the room again. His eyes pass over more books and light on an entire shelf stacked with what appear to be sketch books. He picks up the top most of these and glances at the spine. Each book has a tiny white label giving the month and year, written in a neat hand. He recognises Sherlock's careful hand. John shakes his head briefly. When the detective is in a hurry, as he usually is, his handwriting is spidery, fly away. But here the sketch books are labeled neatly in dark blue ink. He took his time making each label. Obviously, these were important to him.

He flips the first book open. And glances through several pages of pencil sketches.

John raises an appreciative eyebrow at the meticulous drawings. Sherlock was a careful and exacting artist, even at a young age. John thinks of the hours and hours spent on these drawings, and his eyes widen. The book in his hand appears to be all the plants, trees, bushes and flowers that thrive on the Holmes estate and the surrounding countryside. Each drawing is carefully labeled in a youthful hand. He shuts it, notes the year and month, then reaches for the next book under it. This one, too, is all plant life. The third one down is of birds and myriad small animals. John glances at careful drawings of snakes, rodents, squirrels and the like. He admires a particularly beautiful rendering of an owl.

He hesitates, then picks up a fourth book, at the same time he notes this one has no label, no month or year neatly written in blue ink. John flips through the first pages. Most of them appear to be unfinished studies in anatomy; he examines several pages of rough renderings of the human hand, fingers, wrists, thumbs. Some of the hands are open, the palms turned upward. Others are of clenched fists.

There are several blank pages and a few where a young Sherlock began sketches only to rub them out with an eraser. More blank pages, it appears the anatomical studies were never complete. He remembers what Mycroft told him about Sherlock's nurse dying and he believes he understands. The first books were filled, every page, with sketches, all carefully labeled. The next two are the same. But this fourth book … she must have died when they began studies of anatomy. Or perhaps Sherlock simply lost interest.

He flips through more pages, then nearly shuts the book, when he comes to one of the last pages. John stops and his eyes widen, then narrow.

Someone has sketched a man's face, in three-quarter profile. The sketch nearly fills the page. Here is the wide forehead, fine cheekbones, aquiline nose and upturned lips – here is Sherlock, nearly, as he appears now in full adulthood. It is a man's face, not a boy's.

It's Sherlock's face – yet it isn't. There's something about the eyes …

Nicholas Holmes.

John tilts the page toward the light. Could it have been done by Mycroft? John wonders if Sherlock would have allowed his brother use of his sketch book and pencils. But no. He knows whose careful hand drew this sketch. Sherlock's, obviously.

Because after completing what is a rather fine character study, the artist took the same pencil – and drew a large 'X' through the features. And bore down so hard, that the pencil tip broke through the paper and tore into the page beneath.

John stares at the sketch for a full minute. Then, feeling slightly ill, he shuts the book and replaces it carefully under the others, just as he found it.

He looks around the room, crosses over to the far wall and briefly examines the open hole in the wall where the light switch cover was forcibly removed. It sits in pieces at his feet.

John glances down at it, then remembers. He puts his hand in his trouser pocket and draws out the small object he found earlier on the carpet, just under his feet.

John opens his palm to examine it. And stares.

_What in bloody hell?_

**OooOooO**

"It's no problem at all, Sir," Miriam assures John. "Mrs. Holmes has also asked to take her evening meal in her rooms."

John nods. "I'd be more than happy to help if you –"

She shakes her head and smiles gently at the ex-soldier. "We'll be fine, Captain Watson. We'll bring both meals up to the room shortly."

She hands him a list of wines. John hands it back immediately.

"Hot tea would be lovely. And filtered water if that's possible."

"Of course, Captain Watson." She smiles at him again.

Outside the kitchen, John considers for a moment. He almost turns toward the library. But he thinks better of it. Later for answers. Besides, he has no desire to encounter Mycroft Holmes – or any Holmes – for the remainder of this evening.

John thinks of the photograph of Mycroft and Sherlock again and then remembers the image of the defaced sketch of Nicholas Holmes. A feeling of protectiveness rushes over him. He has the inexplicable urge to get back to Sherlock. Quickly. John takes the stairs two steps at a time and hurries toward their room.

He opens their door as quietly as possible and crosses the floor to the bed. Sherlock is asleep and seems to be fine.

John glances around their room, then goes to the table and clears it of the few items there, preparatory to having their dinner sent up.

He sits in front of the window and watches the rain, his fingers worrying with the object in his trouser pocket. John looks out at the darkening skies and tries to remember what he can of his dream. Finally, he nods.

"Right," he whispers. He pulls his mobile from his pocket, thumbs through the numbers, selects Maggie Oakton's and goes out into the hallway to make a phone call.

**OooOooO**

Maggie's voice is concerned, professional, yet tinged with the familiarity of shared confidences and easy friendship.

"Any time, John, except for next Saturday, of course. Although we'll all be seeing each other –"

"Next Saturday?" John says. His mind grapples with the date. He stands in the hallway as he speaks with the psychologist, his back to the closed door of their bedroom.

Maggie's quiet smile comes through in her voice. Her faint Texas accent never fails to amuse him. "Lori's wedding, John. Remember?"

John sighs once and pinches the bridge of his nose. Frankly, he is sick to death of the 'W' word, but as long as it's Lori.

"Right, okay then. When can we –"

"Would this Wednesday be all right, John? I have two openings at 2:00 in the afternoon and you can have both of them. I think we might need the time."

John nods again, his eyes shut. "Yeah, okay, Maggie. That's fine. See you then. Say hi to Galen."

Maggie laughs. "He's right here. All right, John. I'll text you the address of my London office. See you then." She rings off.

John pockets his mobile and opens his eyes to stare at the closed door.

**OooOooO**

Dinner is brought up but the detective sleeps soundly and John is reluctant to wake him. He sits at the table in front of the window, picks at his solitary meal, and mentally reviews what he can remember of the nightmare. He thinks it would be better if he jotted the details down, and wonders how to hide the resultant notes from Sherlock.

Sherlock stirs in the bed and John gratefully puts aside all thoughts of the horrid dream. Presumably, he'll remember it when Maggie prompts him.

Sherlock awakens and sits up on the side of the bed, all traces of his headache gone at last.

John stands in front of him and takes his pulse. The detective regards him with faint amusement.

"Well?" he asks quietly. "Will I live?"

John releases his wrist and looks at him. "Shower? I've kept your food covered for you."

"Not one bit hungry, John, but a shower sounds good right now." The detective moves to stand up and stretches, his arms over his head. He looks at the table, set with dinner, and then turns to pull John into his embrace. He plants an affectionate kiss on the soldier's forehead.

John watches him as he crosses to the bathroom, which is larger than John's old bedroom at Baker Street.

"You will eat, Sherlock," he says quietly.

"Of course, John." The detective shuts the door gently behind him.

John stares at the closed door. Something about Sherlock's actions nag at his thoughts.

**OooOooO**

At John's insistence, Sherlock eats, but he does so slowly, as a man who is recovering from a long illness. John drinks his second cup of tea and watches the detective with affection.

Finally, Sherlock puts down his fork and reaches for his own cup.

"Better now?" John asks.

The detective nods, then regards his soldier carefully.

"This weekend has got off to a rather horrible start."

"You mean end. We're leaving tomorrow, Sherlock."

John lifts the small teapot, yup, one cup left. He pours himself another cup of hot tea.

The detective sets his cup down with a sigh. "No, John. I'm adamant about this. I intend to stay. At least another 24 hours. That should suffice."

John looks at him, then shakes his head.

"And you really think that your Mum is going to be forthcoming with the facts you say you need?"

"Possibly, John. That remains to be seen."

"Lord, but you're stubborn." John rests his elbows on the table and watches his love's throat as he drinks his tea. A shudder of want washes over him but he clamps down on it.

"You love stubborn," Sherlock says. Finished with the meal, he rests his cup in its saucer.

He glances out their window at the dark skies. The rain has ended and the air that comes in the window is fresh and cool. The clouds have nearly dispersed and the sky is rapidly clearing.

He turns to John, who watches him carefully.

"I'm fine, John. And I think a walk would serve to help clear my head."

He puts one hand over John's on the table and squeezes it with affection. "Care for an evening stroll, Doctor Watson?"

John sighs. "Do I have a choice?"

"None whatsoever."

The two men push back from the small table and stand.

**OooOooO**

"I don't see signs in this, John. And what people refer to as miracles, are just fortuitous occurrences, happenstance, nothing more."

"And you don't entertain the idea that you might just be wrong about that, Sherlock?"

"No, John. Empirical evidence would suggest that I am correct in this—"

"English," John says firmly.

The two men stand outside the garden gate, their hands in the pockets of their jackets. They both lean against the bricks and watch the clouds in the night sky as they race and disperse overhead. The moon is a faint sliver of light on the horizon. It gives very little light. But someone has turned on the outside flood lights and John can clearly see Sherlock's face as they begin to stroll slowly toward the front of the estate.

Sherlock turns to watch John's face. The floodlights cast John's features into shadow. But he knows his soldier is smiling.

Sherlock frowns slightly, then his eyes widen.

"John –"

"Right here, Sherlock," John says with gentle humor.

"John, the day that you walked into the lab at Bart's, I would consider that day to be an example of a series of fortuitous occurrences."

John tilts his head to the side and observes the detective's pale eyes, clearly visible in the light from the floods, as well as the light that comes from the myriad windows on the front of the estate.

"Fortuitous. Sherlock, are you calling our meeting a miracle?"

"No, John. Once again, you persist in romanticizing a perfectly straight forward, yet highly acceptable set of circumstances."

At the corner of the house, both men stop. John steps closer to Sherlock and his hand reaches out to lightly press against Sherlock's shirt. Another cotton shirt, not silk.

His fingertips brush over the closest button. "Acceptable set of circumstances," he murmurs. He reaches up and his lips brush over Sherlock's chin, then the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock bends his head slightly to give John better access. His deep voice softens to become a warm hush of sound over John's skin.

"Yes, John, although I must admit that on that particular day, just before you walked in with Stamford, I had spent a great deal of time in the morgue. Also, I had plans for that afternoon. I hadn't planned to stop in at the lab for more than five minutes, at the outside."

John's lips nibble on Sherlock's bottom lip. He sucks on the soft skin.

Sherlock hums and then obligingly opens his mouth to give John's insistent tongue access.

"Hmm, yes, John. If you had not come in when you did …"

John's tongue roams in his lover's mouth, then he reaches up a bit more and kisses Sherlock full on the lips. "But I did come in, Sherlock, right at that particular time."

"So you did, John, still…wait..this isn't proving my point, not exactly," the detective's voice tapers off and his arms encircle John's strong shoulders and pull him gently into his embrace.

"No, not exactly," John whispers. He tilts his head back slightly and Sherlock bends his own dark head and the two men kiss, a long and gentle brushing of lips. John expects it to become something more  _urgent._  But Sherlock pulls back first.

The two men resume their slow walk toward the stables. John frowns in the dark.

**OooOooO**

That night, John makes it a point to wear nothing to bed but his cotton boxers. The detective, dressed in only his silk pants, kisses John once, then turns on his side and pulls John's arm over him. He reaches for the light.

John's breath is warm against the back of Sherlock's neck.

He feels the detective's breathing pattern alter, slow, lengthen. He waits a moment, then slowly moves closer to Sherlock.

In response, the detective merely pulls John's arm even closer, over his ribs, encircles the soldier's hand with his, and falls asleep.

John sighs.

**OooOooO**

The next morning, Sherlock remains adamant that they remain at the estate. As they enter the sunny breakfast room, John notes that neither Deborah nor Regina Holmes are in evidence. Nor Mycroft.

Sherlock attempts to rush John through their breakfast, but the soldier refuses to be hurried.

"Go find your Mum, Sherlock. I'll be right here. If not, then check the library."

Sherlock nods abstractedly and leaves John to it.

John frowns, as he notes the detective has eaten very little. He finishes his tea slowly, his mind grappling with a question that has begun to bug him. But before he even contemplates getting up and leaving, Sherlock is back with an aggravated sigh.

"Problem?"

John watches as Sherlock pours himself a cup of tea and sits down opposite him.

"Mummy has gone into London, accompanied by her assistant and my git of a brother, for the entire day," Sherlock grumbles. His finger runs around the rim of the china cup.

"You think it's deliberate?" John asks.

"I would do, John, if not for the fact that Mycroft accompanied her. Supposedly she has a meeting with our family solicitor. Mycroft volunteered his car and driver. I am certain he intends on working while Mummy keeps her appointment."

John sets down his teacup and looks at Sherlock. He glances from his love's occupied expression to the window. The morning is clear and bright with promise. He nods and fishes something out of the pocket of his jeans.

"Great. Let's go."

Sherlock lifts his head from contemplation of the china pattern.

"Go?"

"Yes, Sherlock, go. As in depart, leave the premises, move our bodies elsewhere."

Sherlock shakes his head. "John, I told you before –"

"For fucks' sake, Sherlock, I'm talking about a ride in the country."

The soldier tosses the keys to the Harley on the table between them, then pushes his chair back and stands.

"Your Mum is obviously going to be away for most of the day. Mycroft too, thank goodness. It's a beautiful day; we can go for a long ride; eat lunch somewhere along the way."

John looks down at his love's dark head with its twisting curls.

"And be back when they both get back later in the day."

Sherlock looks up at John thoughtfully. And grins. "All right, John."

**OooOooO**

John pulls up the long drive and parks the Harley to the side, next to the fence. The two men stand together and contemplate the wreck of the mansion which nearly bore witness to their deaths.

The Crandall estate is nothing but a tremendous pile of rubble, some of it already sorted into corresponding mountains of lumber, stone and mortar, and metal.

"Mummy's already made plans to purchase the land," Sherlock says quietly. He plunges his hands in the pockets of the short leather jacket.

"To what purpose?" John asks, his tone just as quiet. He frowns as he thinks of the detective being trapped in the burning laboratory. He deliberately does not turn to look at the spot under the tree where Rob Enders' body lay.

"Wants to expand the estate, possibly the stables."

"Oh. Right."

Neither of them have another word to say about the Crandall estate. Sherlock turns swiftly to take John into his close embrace. His fingers tighten over John's button-down shirt. He kisses John again, hard, then lifts his head and rests his chin on John's bright head.

After a moment, John tilts his head back.

"Get on the bike, Sherlock. We're getting away from here. Frankly, I never want to see this place again, stables or no."

Sherlock looks into John's eyes and he nods. "Okay, John."

**OooOooO**

At his office, Mycroft works steadily while waiting for Regina to finish with her appointments. He confers frequently with Anthea over his mobile. They go over details of the week ahead. From time to time, he checks to see if he has missed any calls from Detective Inspector Lestrade.

No.

Mycroft eats his lunch at his desk, and pulls folder after folder to him. He taps away on his laptop, occasionally stopping to answer calls from Anthea or one or the other of his agents. His mind operates on several levels as he works. He keeps going back to his disturbing conversation of the day before with John.

Mycroft finishes the day's work, then sits, his long fingers tapping against his mobile phone. He stares at the portrait of his Queen which adorns the opposite wall.

Finally, he thumbs the number he knows best. She answers immediately.

"My dear, I need to reopen our investigation immediately into the whereabouts of one Nicholas Holmes."

"Last known location, his house in Brazil, South America," her voice responds coolly.

"As you say," Mycroft says.

"Sir, we exhausted every avenue at our disposal. Your father simply disappeared."

"No one simply disappears, my dear."

She taps her fingers on her own mobile and stares at the back of Jake's brown curls as he lies in their bed, sleeping.

"We've had no word for nearly two years, Mycroft," she says gently. "Neither his passport, his name or his appearance have been picked up on any of our surveillance leads around the globe. All flights into the UK have been closely monitored."

"I am aware of all of that. We're starting over. Now. Today. Beginning with his last known visit to—"

"Peru," she says quietly.

"Peru," Mycroft Holmes says. "And my dear?"

He glances at his watch, realises it is nearly time for Mummy to call for him.

"Yes?"

"This time, we work both ends against the middle. I want a team sent to my Grand oncle's estate in France. I know it's redundant but please see to it immediately."

"Of course, Mycroft."

She rings off and stares out the window of their bedroom. Behind her, Jake stirs.

**OooOooO**

Hours later, toward early evening, the two men return to the mansion having spent the entire day on the Harley, driving round the countryside, stopping only for lunch and for petrol, before reluctantly returning to the Holmes estate.

Sherlock sighs once, deeply, as John leans the motorcycle and turns the ignition key to Off.

He glances around and frowns.

"She's not here, John."

John removes his helmet and slings it over the handlebars. He stands to work the kinks out of his legs, then glances up at the windows of the estate. He looks at Sherlock.

"How do you know?" he asks quietly.

Sherlock places his own helmet on the seat.

"I just know," he says quietly.

They find Mycroft in the kitchen, supervising the preparation of an early casual dinner. He glances up at the two men as they come in.

"Mummy's plans changed, Sherlock," he informs his brother. "She's spending the night in London. She intends to return in the early morning and asks that you wait for her return."

He picks up a cherry tomato and pops it into his mouth. Beside him, the young man and woman that John saw the day before work quietly side by side, chopping vegetables and prepping a meal. He idly wonders where the rest of the staff is, then realises it is the weekend. Presumably, some of them have the day off. They must rotate shifts. He dismisses it from his mind.

The young woman lifts her head to smile at John. "Captain Watson. Sir." She inclines her head at Sherlock. John smiles briefly back at her but does not speak.

Mycroft looks at both of them shrewdly. "Hungry? How's the headache, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stands next to John and stares at his brother with derision. "Mycroft, why in bloody hell are you even here this weekend? What purpose does it serve?"

The young woman ducks her head and studiously goes back to building the salad. Neither she nor her companion speak a further word.

"Nice, Sherlock. Mummy wanted to speak to me about certain things but she was unavoidably delayed. She asks that both of us remain here in the morning, at least for a few hours."

John says nothing. He looks straight at Mycroft. The elder Holmes brother stares back at him and raises one eyebrow. John abruptly turns on his heel and leaves.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at his brother, then turns to follow John.

**OooOooO**

Upstairs in their room, John stands in front of the window, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks out onto the rolling lawns toward the west and the stables. Sunset is almost upon them and John watches as fingers of violet and pink spread softly across the blue sky.

"John?" Sherlock comes in behind him and places his hands on John's shoulders. John shudders once, then turns into his lover's embrace. He wraps his arms around Sherlock and holds on tight.

The two men stand like that for a moment, then John pulls back to look into Sherlock's eyes.

He clears his throat, but doesn't know how to ask the question that has been nagging at him since they arrived.

"Sherlock?"

The detective bends his head slightly to look into John's eyes.

And then it happens. Two years of living with this man, watching that face and noting every nuance, every emotion or lack thereof that crosses the familiar features, two years of seeing those eyes in clear skies and grey, lit rooms and dark, brightest day and darkest night - and this is the first time that John actually sees it – the colour shift.

Sherlock's eyes, a soft gray-green a moment ago, shift to all green. And John sees it when it happens.

He holds his breath.

"Yes, John?"

John looks into the amazing eyes, then tugs on Sherlock's' waist. The detective obligingly moves even closer to his soldier.

Without breaking eye contact, John holds on to his lover and brushes his palm almost idly over the front of Sherlock's trousers, which remain slack. John frowns and then he remembers the massage, and going forward, their nap the previous afternoon, as well as the night just spent. His hands tighten slightly on Sherlock's arms.

He pulls back to gaze into the pale green eyes. Sherlock looks steadily back at him. He doesn't explain or apologise. He just waits.

John clears his throat. "How long?"

"Always, John. In this house. At least, I – Always."

John thinks for a second. He looks into his lover's eyes. "And when you were younger, didn't you bring anyone here from Uni? What about then?"

Sherlock looks down at John's hand, then back up to encounter his love's dark blue gaze. "No, John. St. John came that one time, on holiday, but we left shortly afterward and went – somewhere else. It was obvious that I - Couldn't."

"Not even when you were alone, when it was just you?"

Sherlock's gaze is unwavering. "Not even then, John."

John regards him carefully. "And there yesterday, under the tree?"

"We weren't in the house, John."

John looks up into the crystalline eyes.

He turns to glance out their window at the faint purple twilight. The rain stopped early the night before, leaving the world washed clean once more. They've had a beautiful day and the evening air is warm, full of the soft scent and sounds of late summer, of flowers and the quiet buzz of insects, of growing things. The grass is bound to still be damp, however.

_No matter._

John turns back. He looks into the green eyes. And grins.

"We're going to fix this, right now."

"John, I don't think I can, not here."

"It's okay, Sherlock. Hold on a sec."

John lets go of Sherlock's arms and the detective watches as he crosses to his worn duffle. While they were out, someone has come in once more and cleaned, changed the sheets, put away all their clothes, and left their bags, empty, sitting next to each other on the floor. He opens the cubbie and rummages for a second, brings out an extra blanket and sheet. He folds these into a compact bundle, years of packing for deployment help here, then stuffs it into the duffle. Next, he crosses to the bedside table and retrieves certain small objects, tosses them into his pockets. Last, he goes to their bathroom, then comes out with towels and flannels and these, too, disappear into the worn canvas bag.

John yanks the drawstring tight, then glances at his lover.

"Okay to go now?"

Sherlock's smile is near blinding. "Where?"

"Anywhere, but here, Love. You said there was a small forest beyond the stream? We didn't walk that far the other times we were here."

Sherlock nods. "Haven't been there in years, John, but Mycroft and I used to play there."

"Dense? Lots of trees?"

Sherlock nods again, and his curls dance. "Lots and lots of trees, John. And grass. We used it as a play fort, among other things."

John hesitates. But he has to know. "Did you ever take anyone there?"

Sherlock smiles softly. "John."

Relieved, John nods. "So long as it can't be seen from the house."

"Not possible, John. It's beyond the streams and orchards and far beyond the last of the bridges."

"Okay then, get your jacket and come on. We won't be coming back here tonight."

John hoists the duffle, and comes to stand in front of Sherlock. He places one hand on the detective's arm. "Hungry? Want to eat before we —"

Sherlock bends and pulls John into his embrace. He plants a kiss on the white-blonde hairline, then bends further to kiss John firmly on the lips.

"That's not what I'm hungry for, Captain Watson," he murmurs.

John smiles against the soft lips. He kisses Sherlock back, then nods. "Me, too. Let's go – before another of those 'annoying' individuals tracks us down and wants to talk about wedding arrangements again."

Sherlock takes the duffle from John's hands and turns, one warm hand on the small of John's back.

"Yes, let's hurry. They haven't asked us what flavor wedding cake we prefer yet. I'm certain that's next."

The two men leave their room and Sherlock pulls the door shut behind them.

"Actually, Sherlock, Deborah did bring that up yesterday."

They walk past the closed doors, all of them, and John notes that Sherlock neither pauses or glances at them as they go by.

"And what did you tell her, John?"

They're at the top of the curving stairs and both men begin to walk faster.

"Whatever Sherlock wants," John says.

Sherlock laughs. A light sound that goes through John's heart.

They manage to leave by the front door and no one puts out a hand to stop them. At the side of the drive, John digs the motorcycle keys out of his pocket. And jingles them.

"Excellent idea, John."

"I thought so."

Sherlock secures the duffle to the back of the Harley, then takes up his helmet and fastens the strap under his chin. John grins at him, then does the same with his own helmet.

Sherlock knows that someone stands at one of the windows to watch them both.

He could give a flying fuck, as John would say.

He puts his hands out and encircles John's waist. His fingers dig into the smooth worn leather of the jacket John wears.

"Ready when you are."

John starts the Harley and turns it slowly round in the driveway. Then they roar off down the long drive. At the bottom of the hill, he turns right and they take the road that cuts through the estate at the bottom of the lawns, heading toward the farthest stream.

He hollers against the breeze. "Tell me when we're getting near."

"Okay, John." Sherlock hollers back.

At the window of the library, Mycroft hears the motorcycle's engine rev up, but cannot see it from that end of the house. He nods once to himself, then settles back into his seat with the evening papers. His mobile sits by his side.

When Mrs. Robinson comes in with his tea, she smiles. "Not certain where your brother and Captain Watson got to, but they'll be wanting their tea, as well, I'm certain."

Mycroft lifts his cup and regards her over the rim. "Actually, Mrs. Robinson, I believe they've left the manor house for tonight. I wouldn't expect them back before morning."

Her eyes widen and she glances once out the window at the evening sky. The sound of the motorcycle cuts through the evening air. A knowing look comes into her eyes and not for the first time, Mycroft wonders what it is about this excellent woman that reminds him of Mrs. Hudson.

Then she nods. "Very well. Good evening, Mycroft. We'll call you for dinner."

"Good evening, Mrs. Robinson."

She leaves and closes the library door gently behind her.

Outside, the twilight deepens. It's going to be one hell of a beautiful night.

The British Government rustles his newspaper. And begins to read.

Mycroft allows himself one smile, a mere upturn of lips, then goes back to his paper.

The roar of the Harley fades away.

**OooOooO**

John spreads the blanket out on the soft grass, under the canopy of leaves. He bends to unlace his boots, then yanks them off and drops them to the side of the blanket.

Sherlock watches him. Then John comes to him and places one warm hand on his wrist. The two men look at each other.

"Come on, Love," John whispers.

He leads Sherlock to the edge of the blanket. There, he carefully begins to unbutton the cuffs of the soft violet shirt. This is the first time he has ever seen Sherlock wear this particular shirt. John would never have imagined such a soft shade could be so becoming to the marble skin and dark curls. But this shirt, the color of the first blush of sunset that greets them on the horizon, could quickly become his new favorite. He unbuttons one wrist, then the other.

Sherlock stands obediently, unmoving as much as possible, while his lover undresses him. His breathing has become slightly labored. He observes John's bright hair through a haze of desire.

Once Sherlock's wrists are freed, John reaches to the shirt front and begins to slip the pale buttons through their moorings. He does not hurry but takes his time. While he is about this task, Sherlock shuts his eyes. And inhales John's scent.

"John," he whispers. And then stops. There is nothing to say. Just – "John."

John pulls the soft cotton off one long arm, then the other and tosses it to the side of the blanket. He immediately bends his head to Sherlock's skin in the crook of the smooth neck. He plants small kisses trailing down from Sherlock's left ear to his shoulder, then back again.

His eyes open to see that Sherlock's are closed. The detective sways slightly, and his breathing has increased considerably. His right hand is at his side, brushing up and down the material of his trousers. His left reaches out and grips John's arm to pull him closer.

John goes willingly and tilts his head to plant a small kiss on the top of Sherlock's bony shoulder. He murmurs to the other man, tiny words of praise, of love and longing, and then his eyes open.

And he freezes.

There. Right there on the top of his love's left shoulder is the scar. Small, more or less perfectly round. And John has noted it a hundred times before.

But now he knows how it got there and who put it there and when.

His eyes widen and he stops moving, momentarily. The entire conversation with Mycroft comes rushing back. His hands clasp over the cool muscles of Sherlock's arm and his fingertips push into the detective's skin.

"John?" Sherlock's voice is soft, a waft of breath that bathes John's cheek and face in warmth. John shudders once as his mind grapples with this, then mentally lets it go.

Later for monsters.

"Come on," he says roughly.

John whispers one word into his love's ear. "Shoes."

Sherlock obligingly lifts one foot, then the other as he scuffs off expensive Italian leather. He kicks them to the side and stands in stocking feet. His breathing has deepened and he sees John through eyelids heavy with growing desire.

John's clever hands lower to the belt. He slowly, so slowly undoes the buckle, then gently slips the leather through and drops it aside. He turns his attention to the fastenings of Sherlock's designer trousers.

He's been here before. It's a matter of seconds before he has buttons, zip and clasp open. He leaves the trousers open. His feelings of possessiveness, of the need to do nothing more than comfort this man are at war with his gut, which tells him to tear through the barriers of clothing and shove Sherlock to his knees.

John's eyes darken and his hands clasp, momentarily, on each lean hip as he grapples with his own desire, too long ignored.

He sighs. Slow and comforting wins. He has no idea if this will even work, if Sherlock will be able to respond to him. They are, after all, still on the Holmes estate.

He told Mycroft he could not exorcise a house of its demons. But he has no intention of letting Sherlock's insecurity, his feelings of inadequacy continue. And if John Watson has anything to do with it, both of them will find some release this evening.

John bends slowly down the length of silk trousers and tugs gently on each leg. Sherlock places one hand carefully on John's good shoulder and obligingly lifts one leg, then the other. The trousers, too, are tossed carefully aside. John makes quick work of the silk socks.

Then he just sits back on his heels and gently cups Sherlock's erection, evident now in its confines of silk pants. He presses his warm palm firmly against the bulge, and is rewarded with the swift intake of breath as Sherlock throws his head back. The long pale neck arches. His hands grip John's shoulders.

He moans softly, gently. "John." And while Sherlock thinks there must be other words to say - surely there are a hundred, a thousand words for love, for longing and desire? - all he can think to say is,  _"John_."

But he says it in the deep tones that go straight to John's groin. Sherlock imbues the four letters with all the feelings, the near overwhelming emotion that threatens to drown his senses. He says his lover's name as if it's his talisman, a charm to be spoken between the two of them,  _the_  one word to use when all others fall by the wayside.

It is enough.

John laughs gently and rises to his knees, his slightly rough hands rubbing up and down the length of the long legs as he does so. He inserts thumb and forefinger of each hand under the band of silk pants, and tugs. Sherlock obligingly lifts each foot in turn and then his love is naked in front of him. John steadies himself against Sherlock's body as he comes to his feet but his hands never leave the cool skin in front of him. He drags slightly calloused hands over smooth skin, pressing against muscle and sinew. Finally, he stands in front of Sherlock and lifts his right hand to nestle in the curls on the back of Sherlock's head. He tugs, and the detective obligingly lowers his head into John's warm kiss.

"Come on, then," John whispers against the amazing lips.

Sherlock opens his eyes to look into the fathomless deep blue eyes of his lover. He trembles with want.

He sinks to the soft blanket and John sinks with him. They lie stretched out under the tree and Sherlock feels the softest brush of a faint summer breeze as it trails over his exposed skin.

It's quite warm, even after the previous nights' storm, but still he shivers. It's not a shiver brought on by cold, but rather the need to have his love's bare skin under his fingertips. He reaches up to push strong fingers against John's chest and attempts to unbutton the cotton shirt.

John smiles lazily and pulls back. He sits on his heels, unbuttons his shirt and tears it off, tossing it over the growing pile. Then he pulls his belt through its loops and this, too, is quickly discarded. He yanks off his socks, then rises swiftly to open his trousers. He retrieves a small tube from his pocket, drops it next to them, then discards his trousers on top of Sherlock's clothing, along with his briefs. His skin shivers slightly in the open air.

He feels fantastic.

Nude and done waiting, he drops to the blanket and stretches out his full length on top of Sherlock. His head just fits in the crook of pale neck and shoulder and he slowly begins to kiss his way along the marble skin.

Some slight feeling of illicit lovemaking, of daring to be naked in the open air, where anyone could come across them at any moment, lends immediacy to his arousal and spikes his senses. John's blood races through his veins and he puts aside all thoughts to concentrate on the pliant body under his own. He begins to stroke up and down Sherlock's skin, to calm and soothe the other man, as well as to help slow the too rapid beat of his heart.

Sherlock tightens his grip on John's arms, then slowly begins to rub his palms up and down, up from the strong wrists and over the forearms with their faint dusting of golden hair, over John's upper arm muscles, kneading and tightening, then releasing as he goes. He grips, then cups the shoulders in his palms, marveling at the smooth play of muscle under skin, then rubs back down again. His hands raise goose bumps on John's skin and his soldier rewards him with kisses grown deep and urgent.

John lifts his head to look at his lover, only to drown in Sherlock's sea green eyes, darkened with desire, and he groans softly.

"I love you," he whispers, hesitant to break the soft evening air with more strident tones. He dips his head into the sweet curve of Sherlock's neck and nuzzles like an infant. His lips part and suck a small bite on the pale skin.

"I love you," he says, his heart swelling. His hands grasp the cool skin beneath him, his fingers leave tracings of heat where they pass. He works to mark Sherlock , to claim him in much the same way that Sherlock marks him. As his, to own, to possess. The detective arches underneath him, and this simple movement serves to inflame John's desire.

To hell with soft and comforting.

John brands the body beneath him, burning a trail of hot kisses into the thin skin over the collar bone. His mind grapples with the puzzle of Sherlock as his body responds to imprint on the other man as deeply as possible.

John was raised by a man who at times, was possessed of his own demons. He was raised by a broken man.

But Sherlock lived with madness and who knew what effect that had on his love's mind, his psyche? Is the madness he sees in Sherlock a result of genetics – or of consistent, ongoing psychological abuse? John has no answers this evening under the green trees of summer, tucked away in this tiny hidden glade, their own isle of calm in the storm of their recent lives. He only knows he is to care for this man who has been placed in his keeping and if by holding him, making love to him, he can protect Sherlock from the tempests a bit longer, then so be it.

It is, after all, what John wants, as well.

This amazing man, this infuriating man, this complicated man is all he's ever wanted. And John knows as he dips his head lower to lave one pink nipple that Sherlock is all he'll ever want. Or need.

Sherlock's fingertips tighten and push into John's warm skin.

"Thank you, John," he murmurs. One hand comes up to sift lazily through John's bright hair. "Thank you." He bends his head toward John's and breathes his words of love into the white-gold fringe.

His soldier lifts his head to look at him, the barest quirk of a grin on his lips.

"You're thanking me for loving you?" he says. His voice is low, gruff. John's chest heaves with emotion and the need to pull in more oxygen.

Sherlock looks downward into John's dark eyes and nods slightly, the barest of movements.

"Yes, John." His hand brushes through the fringe, separating the strands of silk and letting them fall back to the sweetly lined forehead, a few at a time. "I'm thanking you for loving me."

He shifts his hips, angling them upward. John gasps as the sudden friction causes their rapidly engorging cocks to rub against each other. Both men groan aloud with aching need. Their lips meet and their breath mingles in the cool night air. Sherlock sighs heavily and pulls John closer. His voice drops a half octave, if that is even possible, and he gasps against John Watson's forehead and bright hair.

"I'm thanking you for loving me, John Watson." He dips his head and kisses the silken strands, even as his hands tighten, then loosen to caress John's warm skin. He rubs down across the muscles in John's arms, then releases them to pull against his soldier's back, to grasp the shifting muscles and lean torso, to pull his soldier against his own body … closer, ever closer.

"I'm thanking you for staying," he whispers. His hips rise up to meet John's, then begin a slow movement of their own. They fit together perfectly, John's head on a level with his own, John's lips, warm, wet and insistent, on his mouth, their chests and stomachs and cocks and legs rub together in increasingly urgent desire.

Sherlock breathes – and John takes a corresponding breath - as if they share one set of lungs between them. His soldier's chest hair and skin are amazingly warm against him and he feels he can never get enough of this man's body against his own. John moves to shower him with kisses, hot, insistent, along his chin and neck. The faint rasp of stubble makes him groan with desire.

He shifts upward again until John's muscular compact form is entirely fitted onto his longer, leaner torso. He tilts his head so their lips meet, their kisses fast becoming desperate. Sherlock thinks he might die from the delicious feel of his soldier's naked body against his own, muscled chest against muscled chest, stomach against stomach. He begins to move faster, writhing under John as his body and brain and cock threaten to combust against the soldier's tight form.

"I'm thanking you for saving me, John Watson."

John's mouth claims Sherlock's and he kisses him deeply, then impudently licks the soft lips beneath his own. Sherlock sighs with pleasure.

John grins an evil grin. "Then let me save you some more, Sherlock Holmes."

He moves down his love's body in the evening twilight.

Sherlock groans out loud, careless of who might hear. His body responds to his lover's with insistent desire. And for that he is eternally grateful to this man. He has been fearful since arriving at the estate that this would not happen for them.

Then John is  _there_ and all Sherlock can think is  _John …. John … John._

As John's hot, insistent mouth finds and claims him, he stares upward into the darkening canopy of leaves over their heads. His pale eyes widen with desire.

He is vaguely aware of bird call from the woods. He knows that clear water rushes through the creek, a few dozen yards away. He can see the branches sway over his head, indicating a breeze, but Sherlock hears none of it. The only sound is the rush of blood through his veins, the roar of breath in his lungs, the beat of his heart. He thinks he may drown with the onslaught of the sudden tide of desire that John's ministrations awakens.

John reaches for the small tube and a moment later, his clever knowing fingers, slick with lube and urgency, move over and around and into Sherlock and the detective shifts again _. Good God_ ,  _how long has it been for them?_  He cannot think. He feels his mind spiral out of control and not for the first time, Sherlock wonders at the power this man possesses over him.

John's fingers move deeper and Sherlock's muscles contract with urgency. His stomach muscles and balls ache and his gasps become more urgent, demanding.

_Hurry, John, dear John … Hurry !_

John's faint laugh seems loud in the air and his hot breath pours out over Sherlock's aching cock. He plants a last kiss along the straining muscle and another on the velvety head. Then he is moving urgently over Sherlock's body, attuning his senses to the detective's the way Sherlock attunes his mind to his violin.

Sherlock's long body quivers as he grapples with the sudden emptiness when John's fingers pull away from him. But then his soldier is back, and his mouth claims Sherlock's, demanding entrance. He opens unhesitatingly for his lover. As John's warm tongue roams in his mouth, his soldier pushes against his thighs with strong hands which brook no argument. Sherlock instantly obeys, moving and lifting one long leg and as he thinks he cannot bear this feeling of heat, of sweet friction and near combustion for one moment longer, John moves forcibly against him.

"I'm on fire, John," Sherlock gasps in the open air. "I'm burning." He shifts his body frantically with an ongoing wave of desire that threatens to drown his mind and undertow his thoughts.

"I'm burning, John," he says again, his hands grasp at every inch of his soldier's warm skin he can reach.

John lifts his head to stare into his love's pale eyes, which gleam strangely in the faint light. He moves with firm insistence against Sherlock's straining body. He balances himself on his palms and rises over his lover's trembling form.

Closer… ever closer.

"Then we'll burn together," he growls as he thrusts home.

_At last … at last._

Sherlock releases control over his mind … and his thoughts are swept out with the tide.

Over their heads, the twilight has deepened and night is upon them . The faint light of the slivered moon shines down on their entwined bodies, finding its way to them through the tight branches overhead.

**OooOooO**

John bends his bright head in to Sherlock's neck. He shuts his eyes. And just breathes.

"Shh. We're okay. Everything's all right."

"John, you give so much. What if I –"

His soldier lifts his blonde head and two sets of eyes attempt to see each other in the dark night.

"I don't know much, Sherlock Holmes. But I know that every act of love is sacred. And what we've done here tonight no less than any other."

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow.  John settles his head back onto the cool chest.

"Trust me in this one thing, Sherlock. And don't ask me for evidence I cannot give, okay? There are some things we have to take on faith. Sleep now."

Sherlock shifts marginally, settles John's slight weight more carefully on him.

He shuts his mercuric eyes as his long fingers tighten on John's skin.

He says nothing. But his fingers grasp John's skin, as if someone is working to tear the two of them apart.

After a while, he sleeps.

John sleeps, too.

For once, he doesn't dream.

**OooOooO**


	13. Chapter 13

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 13**

 

PROMISES: In which Mummy tenders a surprise, John discovers a clue; Sherlock feels his way, and the subject of violins becomes of paramount interest.

 **WARNINGS:** _**Sherlock by starlight** _ **. (Don't blame** _**me** _ **. You've been warned.)**

**OooOooO**

"I want morning and noon and nightfall with you. I want your tears, your smiles, your kisses...the smell of your hair, the taste of your skin, the touch of your breath on my face. I want to see you in the final hour of my life ... to lie in your arms as I take my last breath."  
― Lisa Kleypas,  _Again the Magic_

 

"It has long been an axiom of mine that the little things are infinitely the most important."  
― Arthur Conan Doyle,  _The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes_

**OooOooO**

Two hours past sunset, when the night is a wash of inky velvet over and around them, but the air is still warm, John awakes. He rolls carefully away from Sherlock, who makes a slight moue of protest at the sudden loss of the warmth that is John. The soldier roots around for his mobile, then uses the small light from the display to make his way, barefoot, to the stream. He carries the flannel he stowed in his duffle with him. The water is cool, not icy, just cold enough to be refreshing. He cleans up quickly, the soldier in him accustomed to making do with very little. Finished, John wets the cloth again and pads through the soft grass back to their blanket.

"Sherlock," John touches the detective on the side of his face.

Sherlock opens his eyes slowly, blinks at the light from John's mobile. He sighs, then stretches his arms over his head. His languid muscles stretch and lengthen. He finally sits up. Both men are, of course, completely nude. He takes the wet cloth from John, hisses at the cold water, but dutifully wipes away all traces of their love-making. He tosses the flannel in the direction of John's duffle, misses, then sits and waits sleepily as John retrieves the sheet he stuffed into his duffle. John covers them both over with the sheet, then settles back down. Sherlock pulls his soldier back into his embrace.

Quite comfortable once more, the two men fall back to sleep. The last thing John notes is the quiet murmuring of the stream in the background and the near hypnotic rustling of the night breeze through the branches over their heads.

One hour later, John wakens again, aware he is being watched. He sighs and rolls onto his side, but deliberately does not open his eyes. The feeling grows. Finally, he says quietly, "Sherlock, go back to sleep."

In response, a cool hand is placed against the small of his back. Firm. Insistent. His lover's voice, a deep soft baritone, washes over the back of his exposed neck.

"Johnnn."

John takes a breath, then rolls back to face the detective. Both men's eyes have long adjusted to the near total dark and they find they can see each other very well, for practical purposes. For a moment, John sees the pale eyes gleam in the starlight that manages to find its way to them through the trees. Sherlock's dark hair blends with the silken night. But his skin faintly glows.

John rolls totally onto his back to better observe his lover.

"You have stars in your eyes," he says.

"Impossible, John, since I am looking downward at you, not upward at the night sky. However, I believe one of those tedious astronomy programs you insisted on watching noted that starlight is actually sunlight. As I  _am_ , at the moment, observing you –"

John smiles. "Are you comparing me to the sun, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sits on his haunches and regards him steadily in the dark. His hands rest on his naked thighs.

John's heart does a long, slow turn in his chest at the ethereal beauty that is his lover by moonlight and starlight. He holds up his arms. "Come here," he whispers gruffly.

The next moment, Sherlock lies fully on top of him, his nude weight distributed over John's more compact body. Clasped together, their bodies begin to warm once more.

John begins to stroke through the tumbled curls. In the night air, Sherlock's hair smells like his shampoo, like juniper berries and, faintly, like warm cinnamon. John inhales him as if he's inhaling the aroma of freshly baked biscuits.

"Say it again," he whispers against the soft curls.

Sherlock takes a deep breath against John's warm skin. When he speaks, John feels the low baritone vibrate through the bones of his skull.

"Say what?"

"My name. The way you said it before."

Sherlock moves his chin more firmly into the space between John's neck and shoulder. "Johnnn."

Despite the fact there isn't a chance in hell of their voices being overhead, they both speak in soft tones, as if divulging secrets to each other, lazy confessions whispered in the velveteen night.

The ex-soldier tightens his hold on the thin shoulders and opens his eyes to stare at the stars visible through the thick canopy over their heads. If he lies very still, they come into focus. It's a rare night in London when he can see more than a scant handful of stars, although he can usually find and identify some of the planets. Saturn, on occasion, low in the sky. Venus, usually when there is a moon visible. Venus – the moon's sister. Once, last year, he actually saw Mars. But only because he'd checked the calendar, then insisted they take a car out into the countryside. Sherlock had gone along in a huff. They parked on the grass and sat on the roof of the rental. And watched as the red planet rose slowly into view, passing John's army field binoculars back and forth between them. Afterwards, as they drove back to the city, the detective was extraordinarily quiet and thoughtful.

But seldom more than a handful of stars. Tonight there are so many visible, they blaze in the sky, crystalline shards that determinedly find their way through the leafy roof over their heads. He breathes softly, not wishing to move too much and jar them out of his vision.

They should move the blanket. Take it out into the open and lie together and look at the stars, but John is almost loathe to move from this place. This tiny sanctuary they have made for themselves, on this night of nights, has become sacred in the past few hours _._

 _Sacred._  It's a word he seldom uses. After all, what is sacred in this world anymore? But, yes, Sacred.  _Sacrosanct._  He wonders, idly, why these words, in particular, pop into his head.

 _Anglican upbringing_ , he supposes.

"Johhn," Sherlock repeats again. He breathes out against John's skin and it tickles.

"I like the way you say that," he murmurs.

Sherlock moves his head marginally, rests his right ear and cheekbone on his soldier's collarbone.

"Tell me how I say your name, John."

There is the lightest of chuckles. Sherlock knows John smiles in the dark.

"You say my name like – well, like it's a soft 'J'…then Ahhhhh … then the 'N. Only it's not an 'N'…more like "Nnnn'. Hell, I don't know, Sherlock. I'm not a poet. I just like the way you say my name."

"J-ahhh-nn." Sherlock's breathe wafts out over the soldier's cool skin, warms where it hits.

"Yes. Like that. Makes it less boring."

Sherlock's eyes widen in the dark and he shifts his position, splays his left hand against the soft blanket so he can lift up and look at his love's face, mere outline and shadow below him.

"Less – _boring_?"

John brushes the back of one strong hand gently over a cheekbone.

"Hey. Don't get in a strop about it. But let's face it. You can't get more commonplace than _John_. "

Sherlock sees a faint shimmer in John's dark eyes. He moves his head slightly. Yes. Right there in his love's deep blue eyes, themselves a slide of liquid in the dark night.  _There_. A single tiny spark.

_Reflected starlight._

"Interesting," he drawls in a low tone. He bends his mouth and nuzzles at John's chin with his soft lips.

"Hmm. I like that, too. What is?"

"You. You're interesting, John Watson."

He begins to nip, then nuzzle his way down John's chin, under the edge, down his throat, across the collarbone. His soldier shifts slightly to allow him access.

Sherlock punctuates his words with lips and tongue.

"You actually believe –" Small kiss on the soldier's chin. "That you are -" Soft lick across the thin lips, bottom lip first, then the top. John groans slightly. "In any way, shape or fashion—" Determined kisses down the soft skin. " _Boring_ , John Watson?" He ends with one long slow lick down the length of his soldier's warm throat. "Untenable."

His soldier squirms slightly and his breathing becomes a bit more intense.

John laughs, a small movement that jars his chest and Sherlock absorbs the slight shock in his own breastbone. He bends his head and nibbles lower, then laves the soldier's suprasternal notch with a warm, wet tongue. His tongue pauses, and he uses the sensitive tip to feel the faint pulse in the sweet hollow where John's neck and collarbone meets his chest. He shuts his eyes and begins to softly hum.

"My name, Sherlock.  _John._  You have to admit, they might have come up with something a bit more interesting. Took the easy way out and named me for my Da. Guess that was okay. I loved the man. Still –"

John moves slightly against the other man and Sherlock gasps. His hands tighten on his soldier's body.

"As for the other, I never really think of myself as boring, Sherlock. Not any more, that is. Bit quiet, maybe. But anyone would come across as quiet, living with you."

"Hmmm. I've heard you tell me before I can be a bit - exuberant." He scoots down a mere inch, which serves to warm John's chest and stomach as six feet of determined consulting lover wraps himself over and around his upper torso.

It also serves to bring their groins into direct contact. Things tighten. Fill. Show interest.

John grins. Fantastic _._  He's ready for another go if Sherlock is. Like a hungry infant, Sherlock begins to nuzzle and root around John's nipples, which makes the soldier groan anew. John shifts his hips. Just enough. Yes.  _There._

"Exuberant, Sherlock? Right. If firecrackers are exuberant. If exploding bombs can be considered exuberant, if mother loving' whirlwinds and bloody tornadoes and the crack of thunder can be – oomph!"

His words come to a sudden halt as two firm lips come down on his, bent on silencing him to all but a few throaty moans.

Sherlock kisses John thoroughly, then pulls back slightly to rub his cool nose against John's. "No more talking," he says, the normally deep baritone a molten whisper against the soldier's face. "You talk way too much, John."

He begins to kiss his soldier in earnest, who responds with sweet enthusiasm.

Sherlock raises up on his elbows, then reaches up to cup his hands around John's face and slowly rake his long fingers through the silken fringe that falls over John's forehead, feeling his way as he goes. He bends his face again and kisses the corner of John's eyes, the tip of his nose, then finally, once more, his lips. His tongue nudges and John's lips part to allow Sherlock access.

The faintest of breezes blow over them and Sherlock's shivers slightly in the cooling air. He can feel goose bumps along his spine.  _Wonderful._

Sherlock shuts his eyes and feels his way along his soldier's body, using sensitive finger tips, warm tongue, soft lips, even the gentle inhalation and exhalation of warm breath, as if his lungs act as twin Geiger counters where John Watson is concerned, his ions attracted to the charged electrodes of John's body. His hands move from John's face and begin to roam.

John's hands splay and then rake across the coolly muscled back. He takes deep breathes, in order to feel the delicious slide of firm muscles and warm skin across his chest. His nipples, erect now in the cool air after Sherlock's attentions, have become hyper-sensitive and he groans with pleasure at the sweet play of cooling night air on warm skin, as his Sherlock moves gently back and forth across his body.

 _His Sherlock_.

A sudden breeze sets the leaves dancing over their heads. The stars blur, dance, rearrange themselves, then settle down once more. In the dark, John smiles, completely content. He withdraws his attention from the stars overhead and rapidly becomes lost in the man in his arms.

Somewhere to their far left, the stream gurgles on, winding its steady way in the dark. The night air is sweetly intoxicating. John pulls it into his lungs … feels the sudden rush of pleasure as the pop of champagne bubbles in his bloodstream. He laughs aloud, and the sound rings out – clear - in the cool air.

Sherlock smiles softly, but his mouth and lips and tongue never stop their assault on his soldier's warm mouth. The two men begin to move urgently against each other, lips kissing, hands grasping, bodies straining. Their teeth and tongues explore, nuzzle, lick.

There may have been biting.

**OooOooO**

Lizabeth comes out of their bathroom, dressed for her day. She crosses the bedroom to the dresser, where she proceeds to select earrings, apply lipstick, fuss with her hair, then look critically at her reflection. Only one lamp is lit, the small one in front of her mirror, and it throws a soft golden light over her features, and casts their bed into near shadow.

Jake props himself up on his good arm, then reaches to click on the bedside lamp in order to observe her more clearly. He shakes his head and his chestnut curls dance.

"It's no use," he murmurs quietly.

She looks at his reflection in the mirror and smiles. "What is?"

"You. It's no use. Whatever you do, you'll still be beautiful."

She laughs, pleased with the compliment, then finishes with the second earring. Today, she wears the small grey pearls that Mycroft Holmes brought her months earlier. She gives herself one last critical once over, then dismisses her appearance from her mind.

Lizabeth crosses to their bed, and he obligingly scoots back to allow her room to perch on the edge of the mattress, as she bends to slip on one Manolo Blahnik, then the other over stocking feet.

She smiles sweetly at Jake and he feels his heart do a slow turn in his chest. Once again, he questions his incredible good fortune at securing the love of this amazing woman. And once again, he frowns as he considers the exacting nature of her job, in all its possible ramifications.

"Stop that," she murmurs. She runs a slim hand through his chestnut fringe. The chestnut curls have begun to grow out, the ones his surgeon had shaved and she is grateful that the stitches, now just a fading red line, remain more or less hidden. When she thinks of how close he came … She glances down at him, the bed sheet has fallen down to his waist, exposing his muscled and scarred chest. She deliberately reaches out one cool fingertip and gently traces around the puckered scaring on his shoulder, slowly being surrounded by a layer of shiny new skin.

Jake catches her hand in his, plants a kiss on each fingertip, then one more on her ring finger, directly over the blue stone that glints in the low light of the bedside lamp.

"Stop what?" he whispers. She bends over to kiss him gently on the lips and then straightens, as he reaches for her compulsively. She shakes her head and he reluctantly lets go, but his fingers leave a slow burning trail down her wrist.

"Stop thinking those thoughts. They put a crease," she touches one fingertip to the spot between his eyebrows, "right here. I'm fine. Agent Williams is my driver today and he's one of  _yours_  – therefore, the best. There have been no repeat incidences of Deborah being followed – either of us, for that matter. Besides, Jacob, I can't get through my day knowing you are worrying about me."

Jake sighs heavily and scoots back to prop his curly head against the pillows.

"It doesn't help that they won't release me for active duty for another week. This is maddening, Lizabeth."

Neither one of them mentions the real reason for his concern – not the ambiguous presence that followed Deborah all over London a week earlier. But the very real fact that through a sheer fluke, Lizabeth survived a car bombing which killed a coworker and very nearly killed her, as well. Jake frowns at the remembrance.

She slips her mobile into her purse, then picks up a light suit jacket and drapes it over one arm. She cocks her head at Jake and grins.

"Actually, Agent, I rather like knowing you'll be available when I get home, here in our bed, right where you belong."

"Right where I belong," Jake says. His tone of voice is just a bit off and she notes it.

"It's just one more week, Jacob. Then, once more into the fray …" She bends to kiss him again and leaves before her heart gets the better of her.

He mentally curses himself for not rising earlier and preparing her a decent breakfast. The pain meds they have him on, although weaker, still keep him drowsy through most of his morning hours. Well, that nonsense stops now. He makes a mental note to flush the remainder of the pills. To hell with all that.

"Make sure you stop long enough this morning to eat something, will you?" he calls after her.

A silvery laugh is her only response as their bedroom door closes quietly behind her.

Jake sighs. He looks across the room and just catches his reflection in the mirror. He looks decidedly grumpy. These early morning hours are bad enough. But knowing that he must stay,  while the woman he loves may be in the very thick of things....he frowns again.

"Into the mother lovin' fray," he whispers to his reflection. He turns to move the pillow behind his head and the slight movement jars his bad shoulder. Jake freezes at the sudden pain, then carefully reaches up for the light switch. That he _can_  make such a simple movement is progress, he supposes.

In the cool darkness of their room, he settles down. With any luck, he can sleep another hour before the morning dispatches begin. He may be on enforced sick leave, but by God, Mycroft Holmes expects him to still earn his keep. His mobile is on the table next to their bed, the volume turned up. Across the room, his laptop computer is fired up and open, although the screen remains dark. He will hear the chime each time a new local Intel report comes across his email IN box.

Jake cannot wait for this freaking' week to be over. And to be back in action once again.  _Monitoring Intel reports be damned._

He pulls up a mental picture of the woman who has agreed to share his life, and settles back against the pillow, trying for one more hour of rest.  _Monday_ , he thinks _. Damn it._   _That means another two hours of physical therapy this afternoon. Which means no lunch with Lizabeth._

Well, he'll text her later.

Jake shuts his eyes and tries to sleep. Some small sense, the faintest niggling concern colors his thoughts. In the dark, he frowns and twists round to pummel the pillow into submission.

His shoulder aches.

**OooOooO**

In the cool early morning air, Anthea locks their front door, then turns to walk to the waiting car at the curbside. Her heels sound a quiet tap tap against the concrete walk.

"Good morning."

"Good morning, Agent Williams."

Anthea acknowledges the courtesy of the car door being held open for her, and settles in the back seat with a sigh. The smell of expensive leather, coupled with the heady aroma of hot cinnamon latte stirs her senses. She inhales once, deeply, then reaches in front of her for the cup of hot sin that rests in the cup holder. Don Williams grins at her in the rear view mirror as he pulls away from the curb. She nods her thanks for the coffee, then sets her Blackberry by her side, and takes a minute to orient herself with the early dawn hour. She watches as London passes by her window. The city will remain dark for at least two more hours, possibly longer as rain is in the midmorning forecast, which will make for a dark grey morning later, a fact which makes her smile. She loves nothing better than these early mornings, the darker the better, when she rides through her city in peace and calm, planning her – and Mycroft's – day.

Traffic is light, another plus. She shuts her eyes for a moment, thinks of Jake and their planned luncheon date.  _Wait. Damn it, this is Monday, so he will be busy with PT all_   _afternoon. Lunch will have to be canceled._ She narrows her eyes at the steaming cup of coffee, then cautiously takes her first sip of caffeinated goodness. She never inquires where Mycroft's drivers get her morning latte, as most coffee shops do not stay open this late, or rather, reopen this early. But find it, they do. She sets the cup back in its holder and retrieves her Blackberry from the seat next to her.

Neither she nor Don Williams talk to each other for several miles.

Then, "We've picked up a tail," Agent Williams says quietly.

Anthea ceases tapping on her Blackberry to catch his reflection in the mirror. Not for the first time, she notes his faint resemblance to a certain Army doctor, although where Williams' hair is a dark blonde, shot with light brown, John Watson's is now much paler, obviously as a result of his recent captivity and horrific abuse.

"Threat?" she says quietly.

He shakes his head.

"Grade 3. Rank amateur. Should have waited until traffic picked up a bit later on. I might not have noticed."

"I highly doubt that, Agent Williams."

He grins again at her quiet assurance and pushes a button on the steering wheel. The chime sounds and Terry Roaman's voice is almost immediate.

"Don?"

"Tail. And not doing a bloody thing to hide it."

Anthea continues tapping away at her Blackberry, but manages to listen quietly as the two agents talk.

"Threat? And do you have - "

"Yes, she's with me. And no, none, so far. Just following behind, steady enough that I picked him up a click back. He's clearly rubbish at this."

Anthea frowns. Deborah's words come back to her from a week earlier.

" _Amateur. Just a simple tail. Honestly, I was rather disappointed."_

"Okay then. Standard procedure. See you both there." Roaman's voice comes back almost instantly, hesitant. "Don, I'll have to put it out on Intel. Jake's bound to see. Be ready for one ticked off senior agent."

Williams sighs. "Can't be helped."

"All right, then."

Don Williams acknowledges, then leans forward to touch a button on the dash. A near transparent shield rises into position between him and Anthea. The rear window is already darkened with bulletproof shielding. He touches the intercom button.

"I'm getting you to the safe house now," he assures her.

She nods, distracted by the dispatches that flash across the small screen in her hands. "I'm fine, Agent. Do what you've got to do."

She lifts her dark head and flashes him a smile in his mirror.

Williams grins back at her but then frowns as he realizes that "what he has got to do," is to not only keep Mycroft Holmes' PA safe, but Jake Lynn's' future wife, as well. Damn it, as if things weren't cocked up enough.

Both men, Holmes and Jake Lynn, will have his head on a platter if anything happens to her.

He drives through the dark, deliberately uses the light traffic to accelerate. Don watches in the rearview mirror as behind them, the nondescript Toyota picks up speed as well, and still remains clearly visible in his rearview mirror.

Anthea resists the urge to turn around. But she keeps her eye on the nearest rear view mirror.

**OooOooO**

Unable to sleep, Jake opts for an early shower. He comes out of the bath, toweling his brown curls, just as the chime sounds. Jake glances across at his laptop computer and tosses the towel on the floor, more or less in the direction of the clothes hamper. He reminds himself to pick it up and stow it properly before his lady love comes home and reads him the riot act.

He ignores his protesting muscles and pads naked to the laptop, to nudge the mouse. The screen jumps to life and he quickly finds and scans the latest report.

His eyes widen. His heart rate speeds up.

Jake curses.

Less than five minutes later, fully dressed, his Sig Sauer in its shoulder holster, he snags his leather jacket off the chair and races out of the townhouse, slamming the front door behind him. He tosses out a mental "Thanks" to Captain John Watson for returning his weapon to him the week before, beautifully cleaned and oiled and in the best operating condition of its life.

He's barking orders into his mobile as he runs.

In Lizabeth's car – this is Mondays and she's always chauffeured on Mondays, has something to do with late night frigging meetings - he pulls into the early morning traffic, driving mainly left-handed. He thumbs a number, then tosses the mobile on the dash in front of him.

Anthea glances up as she hears Jake's voice come over the speakers. She frowns.

Agent Williams catches her eye in the rear-view mirror.

"She's fine, Jake. We're nearly out of the city now. Zero threat at the moment."

Jake proceeds to curse a blue streak at him, demands to know to the minute his ETA.

As he reassures the senior agent, he watches in his mirror as the Toyota picks up speed, and keeps on a more or less direct course behind them. From time to time, another car will come between the two of them. The Toyota always speeds up slightly, then weaves and bobs its way back behind them.

Williams shakes his blonde head.

_Yup. Amateur._

Or possibly someone who can't be arsed to hide the tail, who wants them to  _know_  they're being followed.  Williams considers this possibility.

The text chime sounds. He doesn't need to glance at his mobile, secured on the dash, to know that Roaman is asking for an update, since he cannot get through over the car phone.  Jake continues to monopolize his line for now.

Don Williams sighs. It's going to be one of  _those_ days.

Behind him, Anthea taps serenely away at her mobile, more than aware that her fiancée' is fit to be tied. Undoubtedly, there will be some sort of scene later. In the meantime, she smiles grimly, hits SEND, and immediately begins a new dispatch.

**OooOooO**

John's subconscious nudges him slightly. He rolls softly away from Sherlock, who only turns on his side, then pulls John toward him with one lanky arm. Snuggled back to front, the detective, never fully awake, settles immediately back to sleep. The soft blanket under them is bunched up beneath their bodies but neither man is inconvenienced enough to get up and set it to rights.

John lies there, his love's arm over his waist, and thinks. Something woke him. Something niggles at his thoughts.  _It has something to do with – with what?_ He inexplicably thinks of the small plastic packets that lie on the bedside table in their room. And he frowns. He should not have left them there. He should have put them in his pocket or Sherlock's carry-on. Anywhere but on the table.

No, that's not it. They are presumably asleep in their room. No one will come into it at night and disturb anything. Certainly no one will even think of visiting their room to clean, not when there's a chance they are still there. So – no. That's not what woke him.

What, then? He puzzles over it for a few more minutes, but he can't catch it again and gives it up as a lost cause. Presumably, he'll remember in the morning.

In the meantime, they still have an hour or so before the sun comes up. Best make the most of it. He roots backwards, just a bit, which moves his backside against Sherlock's front. The detective merely grunts once, tightens his grasp on John's waist, and continues to sleep.

In the dark, John smiles softly. Eventually, he, too, drifts off.

In the days ahead, the ex-soldier will think back on this brief respite as the calm before the storm.

And the end of innocence for them both.

But here and now, in the cool morning air, the two men comfort each other with the warmth of their bodies. And sleep.

Over their heads, the stars slip away, as the the morning clouds move in.

**OooOooO**

In the grey morning, they do their best with the same wet flannel – this time the water from the stream is all but icy – and the one towel that John brought. They quickly dress. John brings out his pocket comb and Sherlock takes it from him, combs through the bright silk, then hands it back. In turn, John looks at his lover with a critical eye. They do, after all, have to pass by several household staff on their way to their room to shower and change.

Best not make it _too_  obvious.

Sherlock raises one sardonic eyebrow. "Well?" he challenges.

John reaches up with both hands and combs his fingers through the curls, which make them even more riotous. He shakes his head. And grins. Sherlock's lips are still faintly swollen pink from their lovemaking, and there's a corresponding pinkish caste to his cheekbones.

And he smells like – John leans in and whiffs. Adult male. Musk. Recent lovemaking. Juniper. God, the man smells fantastic.

"What?" Sherlock demands.

"You look thoroughly -- I think the word I'm looking for here is debauched," John says quietly. He rises up on his toes at the same time he pulls Sherlock's head down into a morning kiss.

"But you'll do."

Sherlock lets John kiss him. Then he pulls his soldier close and wraps his arms around the smaller body. "John," he breathes.

"Yes?" His soldier's voice is muffled, pressed against the cotton shirt. John turns his head to the side. "Yes?" he repeats.

"I want to go home." Sherlock lifts his head and rests his chin on John's skull.

The slightest intimation of vertigo, a fleeting light-headedness, assails John. He shuts his eyes and tightens his arms slightly. " _It's coming,"_  he thinks. " _It's nearly here."_

But if in the next moment, you asked him what he meant by  _"it,"_  and asked him just ' _what'_  is coming … he wouldn't be able to tell you.

Instead, he shakes his head to clear it, chalks it up to being a bit hungry, and just answers Sherlock.

"Home? Me, too. Baker Street?"

"Baker Street, John."

"Okay then, let's go. I need a shower before we hit the open road."

The two men fold the blanket and sheet, gather up the few items that lie on the damp grass and somehow manhandle all of it back into John's canvas duffle. John fastens it on the back of the Harley. He glances at his watch.

"We're going to wake half the household by coming up the drive at this hour."

"Can't be helped," the detective says briskly. "I need to leave this place, John."

"I thought Mycroft said your Mum wants to have a word with –"

"Yes, Yes. Doubtless Mummy has something incredibly important in mind. Let Mycroft deal with it. If we get there quickly enough, we can pack and leave before I have to hear it."

John pulls back from Sherlock and stares at him for a moment.

"What happened to staying until you had those questions answered?"

"Home, John. Now." Sherlock slips on his helmet, then picks up John's and stands by the motorcycle.

John looks at him, then takes the proffered helmet, slips it on his head and fastens it, although he feels it's a silly gesture for the short distance they will be traveling.

"Right, then. Shower. Change. Pack. Home. As quickly as possible."

John straddles the bike and reaches for the ignition. For some reason he never fully understands, he resists the urge to look back at their small green haven, as if by doing so, he will somehow ruin it. He wants to keep it in his memory.

Always.

He turns the key.

Three minutes later, they roar up the long drive. John raises one blonde eyebrow.

Sherlock groans.

His mother's dark car is parked in the long drive, just in front of them.

As they pass it by, Sherlock swipes one hand over the bonnet. Yup. Still warm to the touch. His mother must have left London in the early morning hours. While it was still dark.  They park the bike and enter the house through the garage, Sherlock in the lead.

**OooOooO**

They pass a few staff members, all of whom smile and bid them "Good Morning." If any of them think a thing about the men's appearance or their all too obvious early arrival, they dismiss it and certainly do not comment on it. Regina Holmes' staff is too well trained by half.

In their room, Sherlock goes to shower and John hauls their two cases onto the bed. He hesitates, glances at the closed bathroom door, then crosses to the small table on his side of their bed. He slides the drawer open, reaches in and pulls out an envelope. He walks to the window, tilts the contents of the envelope onto his open palm and holds the single object up to the light.

John stares at the largish acorn nut he found on the soft carpet in Sherlock's childhood room, turns it this way and that in his fingers. The morning light is weak and not much help. The natural cap is missing.   Instead there is a tiny hole drilled near the top and a thin metal cap, silver in color, crowns it. John has seen similar crowns on pieces of jewelry. Usually a chain runs through the top loop. In this instance, there is no chain. At some time, one end of the tiny loop was broken, as if the chain was yanked out of it by force, taking the small bit of metal with it.

What there is, besides the small silver cap, are two smallish initials, scratched into the deep brown nut with a sharp point on one curving side. He wonders what Sherlock used to do the carving, as well as wondering how he managed to drill the delicate hole.

He holds the acorn in his left hand and lets it roll around on his palm. Over the years, what must have initially been two clearly carved initials have darkened, probably from the natural oils in the acorn. It's difficult to make out the thinly carved letters, but he thinks he finally has it.

Yup.

**NH.**

Nicholas Holmes?

Why in God's name would Sherlock carve his father's initials into an acorn nut? John stares at the small object. He glances at the bedside table next to Sherlock's side of the bed. The two tiny cellophane bags still lie there.

John can hear the shower running. He crosses to the second table and picks up both small bags. One holds a folded news article, slightly yellowed with age. He holds this one up without taking out the piece of newsprint, turns it this way and that. He puts it back down and picks up the second zipped bag, the one that holds the folded photograph. John withdraws the photograph, glances at it once more and shudders slightly at the incredible resemblance between the elder and younger Holmes. But it's not the photograph that interests him. He turns the small bag over, finally switches on the bedside lamp and holds the tiny bag up to the light.

Yes. This is the one. He can just see – barely - where the acorn must have been kept in this bag. A round indentation shows where it was trapped between the photograph and the side of the plastic bag. He drops the acorn nut into the bag, then gently manipulates it until it fits into the indentation. Satisfied, John straightens, tilts the acorn back into his palm and pockets it. He slides the photograph back into its bag and places it on the table on top of its brother, under the lamp, where Sherlock will clearly see it while dressing.

He stands at their window and stares out at the grey morning.

**OooOooO**

Jake holds the Sig Sauer steady in both hands.

"Put both hands on the steering wheel and don't bloody well move." he says. The driver's side window is already fully lowered. Jake frowns.

The driver of the Toyota, clearly startled, stares into Jake's brown eyes, warm no longer. They are two chips of dark basalt. On the other side of the car, Terry Roaman stands in a similar posture. His Sig, too, is trained on the driver.

"Okay. Okay. Okay! Just – don't hurt me, okay?"

Jake frowns at the obvious youthful tone. He maneuvers around the Toyota, until he is a scant few feet away.

He jerks his Sig, once, at the car and its occupant.

Terry Roaman moves slightly until he clearly has the driver and his hands in full sight.

"Got him," he says calmly.

Jake bends slightly to look into the car. He glances down at the driver, whose hands shake on the steering wheel. He looks in the man's lap, at his worn jeans, damp now around the crotch, glances at the worn grey hoodie, obviously worn over a dark tee shirt, then looks at the floorboard of the car, the passenger seat, then the back seat.

He stands back, gives a curt nod.

"Right."

Terry Roaman makes the same movement from his side of the Toyota, without the benefit of the passenger window being lowered. He sees nothing.

He stands back and lifts his Sig again.

"Okay. Get out of the car. Slowly," Jake warns.

The driver turns his head to look at the agent slowly. Jake's eyes widen.

"Christ, it's just a kid," he says aloud.

The young man, shaken to his core with fear, sweats profusely.

"Please. I – can't get out of the car."

"Why the hell not?" says Jake. He takes a few steps back, expecting a bomb threat. Terry does the same. Neither agent lower their weapons.

The driver, merely a teen ager, bites his lower lip. His hands continue to shake on the wheel.

"I can't get out. I – I've pissed myself."

"Get out of the bloody car! Now. Move!" shouts Jake.

The harshly shouted command galvanizes the driver. He jerks the car door open, then steps out. All the while he holds his hands up, palms out, above his head. He is so terrified, he can't make direct eye contact with the agent.

Jake narrows his eyes. The kid, very dark skinned, with a neatly shaved head and deep brown eyes - terrified eyes - stands by the open door. Jake moves back slightly and gestures. Terry Roaman comes around the Toyota.

"Okay, lean against the car. Both hands on the hood. Spread your legs and keep them spread. No sudden movements."

The teenager, literally shaking in his worn trainers, complies. He leans and places two hands on the hood of the worn Toyota. Jake can see his nails are bitten to the quick.

"What – what are you going to do to me?" he manages to stutter.

"Shut the fuck up. And don't move."

Over the kid's head, Jake makes eye contact with Terry. Terry nods grimly. This is getting utterly ridiculous. What the bloody hell is going on here?

Across the parking lot of the abandoned office building, Don Williams watches the small tableau. He blinks his headlights once, twice. In answer, he sees Terry Roaman raise one hand.

"Right. Let's go, then."

Don starts the ignition, backs the car up, then stops to glance at Anthea in the rear view mirror. Their eyes meet and she smiles at him.

"I'm fine," she says.

"Okay, I'm taking you to the safe house until we know what the hell is going on here," Don says, his voice clipped.

"Very well, Agent Williams."

Anthea turns her head slightly to watch the scenario that involves her fiancée and one of his two-man team. She makes no move to attract Jake's attention. In fact, she leans back slightly in the car so her appearance will not be a distraction to the man she loves.

Don turns the car around, the Toyota and its driver now dismissed from his mind, no longer his immediate concern, and drives off.

Jake stands by the Toyota and watches as Terry Roaman frisks the kid, then shakes his head and stands back. He does not watch the car that holds his fiancée drive off. He knows Lizabeth is safe in Don Williams' hands.

He puts his attention on the teen driver of the Toyota.

"Okay, then. Before we go any farther, what the hell is your name?"

The kid shakes in earnest now. He begins to turn his head the better to see Jake.

"I didn't say you could move. Stay just like that. What is your name!?" shouts Jake. It seems to be the only thing that gets a reaction out of this teen.

"R-Ryan," he stammers. "My name is Ryan."

"All right then,  _Ry-an_ , take your hands off the car and let's go."

The young man lowers his hands and turns around slowly to face Jake Lynn.

"Go where?" he manages to gasp out. "Is this – is this about the violin? 'Cause I can explain all that. I just need to sit down." He glances down. "And change my trousers." He looks back up again and the two agents watch his hands twitch and jerk.

"If that is okay," Ryan says nervously.

Jake just stares at him.

Terry Roaman comes up behind Ryan, and puts one hand on his shoulder. The teen jerks away in terror.

"Come on then," Terry says gruffly. He nods at Jake and leads the teen away toward the building.

Jake watches them for a moment, then holsters his weapon and leans in to grab the keys out of the ignition. He pockets them, glances once at the road Don Williams just took and follows Roaman and their terrified perp into what passes for an abandoned building.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock hears the text chime and stares at the one curt message from Mycroft.

 

_**Your presence required in the library.** _

_**Bring John.** _

__

John Watson, in the act of stripping off his clothes and tossing them more or less in the direction of his duffle, pauses at the look on Sherlock's face.

Fresh from the shower, the detective has dressed quickly in a dark suit and dark blue silk shirt. He tosses his mobile onto their bed and looks at John.

"My brother wants us in the library. Undoubtedly, this has something to do with Mummy's request last evening that we do not leave until we see her."

John nods, suddenly sick to death of Mummy, Mycroft and all things Holmes – except for  _his_  Holmes.

"I'll shower and change and meet you there."

Sherlock hesitates. His soldier stands a few feet away from him, barefoot, nude to the waist, his hands hang by his side, lightly clenched. The whitish scar tissue on his shoulder stands out against his slightly tanned skin. Sherlock wonders if John will be able to regain all his muscle mass lost due to his recent captivity and maltreatment. As it is, his soldier's body is trim, his stomach absolutely flat, and the muscles of his chest and arms, while thinner than they once were, stand testament to the new morning regime of sit ups and push-ups that John began after his recent hospitalization.

John's grin is slow. "See anything you like?" he asks with quiet humor.

"Lots of things, John. But no time for it now. Unfortunately."

Sherlock twirls, grabs his mobile off the bed and toes into his Italian loafers.

He crosses to their door, hesitates, then comes back and picks up the two plastic bags on his bedside table. He drops these in a pocket of his trousers and leaves their room with determined strides.

John watches him go. Then turns toward the bathroom.

In the shower, John stands under water as hot as he can bear. After a few moments, he dials it down to warm and reaches for the flannel and soap. John does some of his best thinking in the shower and this morning he lets his mind grapple with the tiny mystery of an engraved and capped acorn nut.

When it hits him, his eyes widen. And he curses himself for twice an idiot.

"Christ, and I even saw the bloody thing."  

He reaches for the taps.

John towels off and dresses as quickly as possible. He pulls on socks, stamps into his worn boots and grabs his leather jacket. He leaves the packing for later. Presumably this meeting with Regina Holmes won't take that long, and hurries down the hall.

At the door of Sherlock's childhood room, he pauses, then tests the doorknob. Yup. Still unlocked. John clicks on the lights then crosses to the shelf that contains the sketchbooks he flipped through a day earlier. He has to hurry as Sherlock will undoubtedly come looking for him if he doesn't show up at the library soon.

The first book is no help. John skims through it, then replaces it on the shelf. With the second one, however, he hits pay dirt a few pages down.

And here it is. He regards the page of careful sketches of nothing but acorns. Small acorns, largish ones. Some with a bit of twig and leaves attached. All of them just careful studies of the rather boring offspring of English oaks.

He flips to the next page over. And stops. Another acorn. This one sketched slightly larger. And it is not wearing its natural little cap. Instead, a quick sketch of a jewelry cap is side by side with the small nut.

And the initials sketched onto the acorn nut – _not_ **N H**. Why did he think that a youthful Sherlock would carve his father's initials into what is obviously an offering to his female nanny and tutor?

Because here is the proof. Before he even went about cutting her initials into the acorn, topping it with a silver cap and hanging it from a chain, Sherlock, true to form, sketched the entire thing in his book.

The initials stand out, clear as day, in the pencil sketch.

Not N H.

**H H.**

_What was her name again? Henderson. That was it. Something or other, Henderson._

John's hand delves into his trouser pocket and he pulls out the acorn topped by a slightly scuffed silver cap, with the broken loop on top. The loop that undoubtedly once held a fine chain. A youthful offering, perhaps a birthday gift, from a young man, being trained to observe the natural world around him, to his beloved tutor.

John turns the acorn nut in his hands and holds it next to the sketch.

He can now clearly see that the initials, once clear but now darkened with age and natural oils, were  **H H**.   _Holly?_  Yes.  That fits.  

 **H** olly  **H** enderson.

Sherlock's nanny and tutor. Deceased - under questionable circumstances.

**OooOooO**

When John enters the library, there is already a family tableau in front of the tall windows. He comes into the room, then hesitates.

Regina Holmes faces the room. She stands next to her favorite chair, a delicate piece of furniture, covered in embroidered brocade. She and Mycroft stand together, several feet away from Sherlock. She holds several pages in her slim hands.

Sherlock stands at one of the tall windows, his back to the room. He glances out into the garden. By his posture and his location, he has managed to distance himself from whatever is occurring a few feet away from him.

John wonders what it is.

Mycroft glances across at John, acknowledges his presence with a quick nod, then returns his attention to his mother.

"What are you saying, Mummy?"

The Holmes matron purses her lips. "I should think the document speaks for itself, Mycroft."

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow, but does not turn from away from the window, not even to acknowledge John's presence. He knows John is there and that is enough.

John looks from Regina Holmes to Mycroft to Sherlock. Sherlock's entire body screams indifference.  _Okay, then. Fine. The sooner he leaves and they have their little chat, the sooner he can collect Sherlock and get the hell away from this place._

The ex-soldier clears his throat.

"This appears to be personal family business. I'll wait for you in our room, Sherlock." He turns to leave.

The detective whirls, his hands still in the pockets of his trousers. "John, please stay."

John turns back to regard the detective.

Regina looks at John. He looks placidly back at her.

Mycroft watches them all with interest.

"Yes, please stay, John," Regina continues, "I already consider you my son-in-law. And this may, eventually, affect you, as well. I would appreciate it if you could remain."

John looks from her steady gray gaze to Sherlock. He nods at John once. And turns back to the window.

"All right then." John comes closer and watches the group, wondering what the hell is going on. Something has Sherlock in a funk. Something more than just being in his Mum's presence.

Regina continues as if the tiny interruption has not occurred.

"What Mycroft holds in his hands is a final divorce decree, granted after my repeated requests and pursuit of same."

John sees the slight stiffening of the perfect shoulders encased in the elegant suit jacket.

Mycroft reads the document swiftly, then looks up at his mother.

"Mummy, the abandonment clause is rarely used in the U.K."

"I know, Mycroft, but in this instance, it has succeeded where my previous attempts at severing this relationship have failed."

Mycroft looks up at his brother, then walks to Sherlock and touches him on one shoulder. He shudders slightly and John sees it.

The detective slowly turns to regard his brother with icy indifference. He holds out one elegant hand. Mycroft places the document in his hand and watches as he scans the first page only. Sherlock then hands it back. The two brothers do not make eye contact.

"It would appear, then, that you and our father are now legally divorced. Interesting news. But I fail to see what this changes and frankly, mother, I do not pretend to understand why you have taken this step now, after all these years. Be that as it may …"

He glances at John who looks steadily back at him. Mycroft takes up his former position to the right of his mother. He flips through the document, zeroing in on the final page with interest.

"John, I believe we are done here, nearly. Thirty minutes should suffice. Do you wish to commandeer one of the family cars or —"

Regina stirs. "Mycroft, I would expect you and your younger brother to understand that –"

John Watson has had enough.

"Sherlock."

John's voice rings out with quiet authority. It isn't extraordinarily deep, like his lover's, or wryly commanding, like Mycroft's.

But it's strong and assertive and no one in the room even thinks of talking over the ex-soldier.

John makes direct eye contact with Sherlock's mother.

"Sherlock," he repeats.

Dead silence.

The detective does not turn from the window, but his back muscles tense. He knows John is not addressing him.

Regina stops talking, looks across the room at John. John stands directly opposite her, arms crossed firmly over his chest. He stares at Regina Holmes and she stares back at him. The other two occupants of the room are – temporarily – forgotten.

"Excuse me? What –"

"Your youngest son. It's the name you gave him." John says.

He straightens to his full height, his arms fall down by his sides and he stands there, his hands clenched loosely by his sides. He looks into his mother-in-law's pale grey eyes. She looks back at him but doesn't speak. One slim hand grips the back of the French provincial chair in front of her. John watches her narrow fingers tighten in the gorgeous fabric. He wonders how long before her manicured nails rip through the silk threads.

"Sherlock. In case, you know, you should ever wish to address him directly – or even acknowledge his fucking existence outside this bloody house."

There's the slightest gasp and it comes from his far right, from Sherlock. But the detective still doesn't turn from the window. His hands clench in the pockets of his trousers and John sees out of his peripheral vision that the elegantly attired back is rigid.

Mycroft lifts his head and looks across at John, the document in his hands temporarily forgotten. He raises one eyebrow in mute appreciation.

No one moves. Regina Holmes straightens her posture, which pulls herself up to her full height. John's height, without heels. Three inches taller with them.

She clears her throat. "John, I don't –"

"No. You  _don't_. You never do, do you?"

His hands remain clenched and his blue eyes bore into hers.

"Which is a bloody shame because you might actually  _like_  the man, if you ever took the time to get to know him. You most definitely would be proud of him. I sure as hell am."

John glances once at his lover's back, then puts all of his attention on the woman who gave birth to the man he loves.

"You should know,  _Mrs._  Holmes, that there are people walking around alive - enjoying their existence on this planet, going about their daily lives, working, marrying, raising families – because of your son, Sherlock. You should know that at last count, this man is directly responsible for the discovery and apprehension of seventeen murderers in the last years alone, many of them serial killers. Seventeen monsters off the streets. And that's just since I've had the pleasure of knowing him."

Sherlock's back could not be any more rigid.  John can see his hands balled up in his trouser pockets.

He looks straight at Regina and his dark blue gaze does not flinch.

"You should know, if you ever took the damned time to find out, that there are professional police officials, from all ranks, across this country, as well as on the continent, who look to  _your youngest son_  for his expertise, no, that's the wrong word, his frankly brilliant deductions concerning human behavior, which have enabled them to bring dozens of criminals – we're talking murderers, rapists, thieves - to justice and repeatedly saved those same individuals' sorry arsed jobs. Although it's hundreds by now. I've lost count."

John tilts his head and regards the woman opposite him with something akin to quizzical curiosity.

"Your youngest son, Sherlock, is utterly brilliant. But then, you knew that, right? You did know, that, Regina? While you and Mycroft were having him committed at fifteen, tearing him away from his home and family and college, plunking him down in an alien environment, leaving him there alone, in the care of strangers and then walking away, leaving him there so the psychiatrists and bloody psychologists and substance abuse counselors could all have a crack at him – too eager by half to have the Holmes boy genius in their clutches - while they were pumping his brains for data for their bloody scientific papers and pumping his veins full of Chlorpromazine, and other typical and atypical antipsychotics, some of which have now been linked to uncontrollable tremors, as well as other nasty side effects – during all this, you  **did**  bother to get to  _know_  your son, right?"

Regina's face is bloodless. John thinks she looks every one of her 60 plus years. The pale grey light from the windows isn't helping her any. Her nails dig into the bright threads.

Mycroft clears his throat. "John."

Sherlock says nothing. He doesn't turn from his rapt contemplation out the window. But John sees his dark curls duck slightly. He wonders if Sherlock's head pain has returned. A cold anger burns in his chest. He shakes his head.

John breaks eye contact with Regina. He glances once, briefly at Mycroft, his eyes such a dark navy they appear nearly black, then abruptly pivots and walks to the library door.

One hand on the door knob, he half turns. "When you're done here, Sherlock, I'll be in our room." His voice brooks no argument. "Packing."

Then he's gone. The heavy mahogany closes quietly behind him. The library is all but sound-proofed and his determined footsteps quickly fade on the oriental carpeting in the outer hall.

No one says a word.

Sherlock continues to face out the east window, into the garden. He ignores the bright flowers in the garden and his mother and brother behind him and lifts his head to regard the mid-morning sky, and the gathering clouds in the distance.  _Cumulonimbus. Height: approximately 10,000 meters._   _Ambient air temperature_  – 22 - 24o C.  _There will be rain soon._  With any luck, they'll be back home, nearly, at Baker Street before it hits.

A moment later, his oxygen-starved lungs remind him to breathe.

**OooOooO**

In their room, flushed with anger, John moves quickly and efficiently.  He finishes their packing, then glances around the room.  He checks the bathroom, then the bedside table drawers, and finally the cubbies. Frankly, he cannot wait to be away from this place.

As he tosses his canvas duffle next to Sherlock's carry on, he hears the first distant rumbles of thunder. He straightens to glance out their bedroom window at the greying skies. He does some quick thinking, then reaches for his mobile.

Mycroft sits alone in the library, mobile in hand, and reads two dispatches in particular. His eyebrows raise. Then he nods, satisfied with his people's actions. Anthea is safe. His men are with the suspect. All is well. For the moment.

His text chime sounds. Mycroft reads John's text.  He lifts his phone to call the ex-soldier directly, then reconsiders and taps out a quick reply. He had already foreseen the obvious problem of transportation when he looked out at the darkening skies. And taken steps to handle the problem.

Meanwhile, he and his brother-in-law are both in the same house, within a few hundred yards of each other. And texting. Which is fine. Neither man really wants to speak with the other. Mummy has long since retired to her room and he suspects he will not see her again before his car and driver get there.

**We need a car, Mycroft.**

**Can't take the Harley all the way to**

**London in this rain.**

**JW**

 

_I surmised as much._

_Car and driver downstairs in 20"_

 

**Thanks. No driver needed.**

**Leave keys in ignition please.**

**JW**

 

Mycroft frowns.

_Very well._

Mycroft purse his lips. This means he will be driving back to London accompanied by two agents, rather than the one driver he requested. Ah, well.

Mycroft waits for an answering text. When he receives none, he goes back to the dispatches.

 

**OooOooO**

 

"Mrs. Holmes?"

Regina looks up from her computer at Deborah, who stands in the doorway.

Deborah's normally calm attitude is just a bit  _strained_.

For her part, Deborah thinks Regina Holmes seems preoccupied, the pale grey eyes haunted. The beautiful face has aged overnight. Deborah wonders what has happened.

"Well?"

And that settles it. Mrs. Holmes is nothing if not polite. Something has definitely occurred to rock the assured demeanor. At Regina's slight nod, Deborah comes into the room and hands a single sheet of paper to the Holmes matron.

Regina reads quickly. Her brows come together. She looks up at Deborah.

"So, no wedding to be performed at the church selected."

"I'm afraid not."

"And this is because this is a same-sex union."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Which they knew when they initially agreed to this."

Deborah merely nods. She stands and waits.

Regina taps one finger on the sheet of paper. She purses her lips, as if she has expected this news all along. "Someone's putting the pressure on," she murmurs.

She looks up.

"Very well then, Ms. Sakai. We merely change the venue of both the ceremony and the reception. Guests will not wish to drive far from one to the other. So we combine them both."

"Where?"

"Here at the estate, of course," Regina snaps. "The formal gardens will do very nicely both for the wedding and the reception. In fact, it was always my first choice. God knows, space won't be an issue. We'll have to order extra seating immediately, of course."

Deborah looks at her and just waits for the obvious problem to raise its tiresome head.

It does.

Regina stares at Deborah, then nods once, as if thought transference is entirely normal in anyone with the last name of Holmes.

 _Perhaps it is,_  Deborah thinks. She thinks of Mycroft. A sudden wave of longing washes over her _. Dear_   _Lord, let this wedding happen and soon._  She needs to get back to her real job.

"Hmm. Right. An obvious problem occurs. Please contact the individuals overseeing the cleanup of the Crandall estate. We'll need to use it for parking, then arrange to shuttle the guests back and forth between the two properties. We simply cannot have hundreds of vehicles parking on the drive or lawns."

Deborah stares at her erstwhile employer, then nods once, briskly.

"Very well, I'll take care of it immediately. There'll be a rather substantial penalty for cancelling the original reception hall, I'm afraid."

Regina Holmes waves away the "rather substantial penalty" as if it's nothing.

Deborah Sakai folds the letter from the Archbishop's secretary, slides it into its envelope and turns to go. At the door, she looks back at Regina, who stares ahead at nothing.

"Mrs. Holmes? Are you – is everything all right?"

Regina shakes her head slightly, then lifts her beautiful eyes to Deborah's sympathetic gaze. "No, Ms. Sakai, they are not. All right, that is."

Deborah nods. "Is there anything –"

"No, my dear. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do to help with this."

"Very well."

"Deborah?"

She turns to regard the older woman.

"How many positive RSVPS' have we received? Because every single one of them will have to be notified of the change in location."

The two women stare at each other.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock meets John in their room. He gives the room a quick glance, then lifts his leather carry-on and suit bag.

At the door, he hesitates, stares at his soldier. John looks calmly back at him. Sherlock clears his throat; there is the faint blush across the remarkable cheekbones which tells John Sherlock is actually - embarrassed. And more than a bit chuffed at John's insistent defense of him in front of his mother. And Mycroft.

"John, I -"

"It's okay, Sherlock. Let's go home, yeah?"

The detective frowns. "Technically, John, it would have been eighteen killers if Lestrade's group of trained -"

"Just let it go, Sherlock."

He nods. "Okay, John."

They make their way downstairs.

Mycroft's drivers and cars are in the garage when they go down. Regina Holmes is nowhere to be seen, nor her PA, Deborah.

John accepts the keys from an agent he has never met before, nods his thanks. Sherlock tosses both John's duffle and his leather carryon in the boot. A bit more careful of his suits, he hangs the bag by a hook. John moves his beloved Harley into the garage, parks it in the corner and leaves the keys in the ignition, the helmets slung over the handlebars.

He leaves it with a pang but it can't be helped. Besides, he's aware that it's definitely time for an oil change and maintenance. Perhaps Mycroft can be persuaded to – Nope. Best leave that for now. He'll be damned if he asks the elder Holmes brother for any more favors right now.

Sherlock gets into the passenger seat and immediately pulls out his mobile. He proceeds to text, while he ignores both John, his brother's agent, and the world around him. John fidgets with something in his pocket, as he thinks quickly. Then he nods and gets into the driver's seat.

John drives steadily through the humid morning, trying to outrun the downpour that is undoubtedly coming. He knows it's a toss-up as to whether they reach London's environs before the heavens open. Frankly, he can't be that arsed to care.

Beside him, Sherlock sends yet another text, then sits and flips his mobile back and forth in his hands while he stares out the window.

One hour down the road, John stops for petrol. He grabs his mobile off the console, drops it in his jacket pocket, then goes in search of the loo. Both men take the opportunity to stretch their legs.

When they both return to the car, Sherlock glances at the sky and grimaces.

"I know," John says. "We're not going to make it. Get in."

"Unimportant, John," Sherlock says surly.

They are a mile down the road when John hears the simultaneous text chimes. Sherlock, who is once again typing furiously on his mobile, shrugs his shoulders.

"Both texts received at the same time. Obvious, it's Mummy's PA. Some more ridiculous information about the wedding. I'm in the middle of a reply. Can't be arsed."

A moment later, Sherlock stops texting and stares pointedly at John, whose eyes remain firmly on the road ahead.

John sighs.

"In my jacket pocket, you maddening git."

Sherlock rests his own mobile in his lap, then digs through John's jacket pocket to find the soldier's mobile phone. He retrieves it, pulls it out of the pocket, at the same time something small and round bounces onto the car floor at his feet.

Sherlock lifts John's mobile and taps the screen. He reads quickly and John sees his hand jerk slightly as he tosses the mobile onto the dash. He glances over at Sherlock, and at the amazing lips as they purse in what John recognises as sheer frustration. And just a bit of anger.

John frowns. He returns his gaze to the road.

"What is it this time?"

No reply.

Without taking his eyes off the road, John says, "Well?"

Sherlock sighs, lifts John's mobile and reads the text aloud.

 

_**Church refuses ceremony.** _

_**Wedding & reception changed to Holmes estate.** _

_**Details to follow.** _

 

"Bugger," John says under his breath.

Sherlock says nothing but glances at his feet, then bends over to retrieve the object that tumbled out of John's jacket pocket. He raises back up with it in his hand.

John glances over at him and his dark blue eyes widen.

Too late.

Deborah's text forgotten, Sherlock lets John's mobile drop from his hands onto the car floor.

Sherlock sits there and stares at the object in his hand. The large acorn pendant with its tiny inscription rolls back and forth, back and forth across his cupped palm.

There is sudden silence in the car. John feels his heart pound in his chest.

_Idiot. You are a royal, bloody idiot!_

Sherlock's breath comes out in tight gasps. Too late, John realises what has happened. His hands – nearly – jerk on the wheel.

"Sherlock –"

"Pull over."

John turns his head to stare at the other man.

"What? Why?"

"Now."

John swings the wheel to the left and pulls the car onto the verge. Sherlock's hand is on the door handle as the tires slide in the grass. Then he is out of the car. He stumbles to the far side, a few feet away from John, and doubles up, retching.

John frowns. His hand is on the door, but he hesitates. There are times a man just does not want an audience. He rummages through the glove compartment, pulls out a handful of tissue, tosses them on Sherlock's seat. Then he uncaps a water bottle, hits his window control and hands the water to Sherlock through the open window, as the man straightens up. The detective takes the water and turns away from John.

John sits and waits while he drums his fingers on the steering wheel. He bends over to pick up his mobile off the floor. Jesus! Should he call someone? Mycroft? Maggie?

Sherlock opens the door, slides in and leans his head back on the rest. He shuts his eyes. His countenance is utterly pale.

"Sherlock?"

In answer, Sherlock reaches across his body with his left hand, which shakes slightly. He drops the small acorn pendant in John's hand.

Sherlock doesn't speak.

It begins to rain.

**OooOooO**

 

The glade scenes written to " _Bleeding Love."_

Artist: Leona Lewis.

All other scenes written while under the influence of the theme from  _Skyfall._

Artist: Adele.

**OooOooO**

Grateful thanks go to all who have reviewed these latest chapters. I could not reply to several of you as you did not sign in or had turned off your reply features. To those anonymous Readers and Reviewers, and to ALL of my Readers, each of you are precious to me and I thank you for taking the time to not only Read my trilogy, but to comment on it, as well.

Some of your comments, in particular, left me deeply moved and frankly, in tears.

And I thank the Universe for you, too.

You know who you are.

'sky'


	14. Chapter 14

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 14**

" **WHERE HAVE ALL THE GOOD MEN GONE – AND WHERE ARE ALL THE GODS?"**

 

**WARNINGS: Triggers for PTSD, child abuse. Head games. Angst. Memories of death. Cold blooded murder.**

**PROMISES: HOPE. " … the thing with feathers..."** _**Emily Dickinson** _

_**For those readers who have left me PM's regarding Part Two - Principalities - it will begin posting immediately after Part One - Acclamations - is complete. Thank you.** _

 

**OooOooO**

 

"I say, Watson,' he whispered, 'would you be afraid to sleep in the same room as a lunatic, a man with softening of the brain, an idiot whose mind has lost its grip?'

'Not in the least,' I answered in astonishment.

'Ah, that's lucky,' he said, and not another word would he utter that night."  
― Arthur Conan Doyle

 

"One of the saddest things in life, is the things one remembers."  
― Agatha Christie

**OooOooO**

 

**Sherlock opens the door, slides in and leans his head back on the rest. He shuts his eyes. His countenance is utterly pale.**

" **Sherlock?"**

**In answer, Sherlock reaches across his body with his left hand, which shakes slightly. He drops the small acorn pendant in John's hand.**

**Sherlock doesn't speak.**

**It begins to rain.**

 

**OooOooO**

**Twenty-three years earlier – the Holmes estate**

He runs as fast as his legs and second best trainers will carry him, past the stream, parallel to the largest of the rolling hills. He has learned from experience that it is far easier to find one's way back to the house if one follows the streams, then turns left at the last one – first one from the viewpoint of anyone  _at_  the house – and then make your way over the lawns and thus, nearly straight on to the front door. Otherwise, if you just rush blindly over the hills, it is inevitable that one will follow the curve of the lawns and come up far to the west of the main entrance. As happened when he and Mycroft ran a footrace to see who was fastest and his brother had taken off racing over the lawns for all he was worth in a bid to outrun him - No. Stop. Unimportant.

_Concentrate on what has significance. Still, if Mycroft had only listened to their father – shortest distance between two points is always a straight line._

_You can run faster than this. What if Ms. Henderson is afraid, alone in the near dark? She appeared calm, but it is obvious she is in pain. Her voice broke. And the way she clenched at my jacket when I gave it to her to help prop up her leg. Yes. She's experiencing pain._

And he knows what pain is like – he has become quite familiar with it at his young age.

_I wish Mye was here._

_Hurry._

Sherlock's mind runs through permutations, as he rehearses the directions he'll give his Mother.

S _he is at the farthest stream, near the copse. The next stream is a thousand feet east. It's getting dark and there's a storm coming, obvious. A dozen yards more and yes! Here's the middle stream. Begin counting again. Now one more stream - watch for the bridge - and make the right angle. Don't trip. Ms. Henderson is injured. She's hurt and it's all my fault! I knew the rabbit warren was there. I should have warned her. Idiot! You wanted to show her the nests. Sentiment. She's most certainly seen a nest of kits before._ _Oryctolagus cuniculus._ _That drawing came out rather well._

His breath comes in gasps and his clenched hands pump as he runs.

 _We were going to begin insects next week. She promised to tell me about the bees. They're becoming scarce._ _Apis mellifera_ _._ _Something's wrong, something to do with the honey bees. Together, we might figure it out and save them. She told me I'm clever. Not in the way father says it. As if she means it. Broken ankle – hospital, of course. They will set it and administer pain medication and she comes home. We come home. Perhaps Mother will let me accompany her to hospital. Father won't. Father will be - best not to think about that. I can sit by her bed and read to her. She'll want to hug me. Somehow, I don't mind when she hugs me. It's not the same as when Mother does it. Mye used to hug like that. Said I'm too old now. "Young men don't hug, Sherlock." She liked the necklace. Born on the same day of the month I was. Wish she had my birthday. That would be fun. Same month; same day. Here's the farthest stream. Careful. Due north now. She'll be okay; she'll be fine. I want to hear about the bees. I could research it but it's not the same. Will she be angry about the rabbits? No. She's never angry, not like – No! Don't think of it. Focus, Sherlock._

Somewhere far off, he hears thunder. Followed almost immediately by a second crack, which shouldn't be possible, correct?

But the second - it's not  _here_  and  _now_.  _Where then?_

His head buzzes. Someone is talking to him. He knows this voice.

Comforting. Warm. Home.  _"John."_

His ears ring. Atmospheric, obvious. A storm is coming.  _Mye, why aren't you here?_

Sherlock runs faster.

**OooOooO**

I've got you."

" _John."_

"I've got you, Sherlock. I'm right here."

The sound is small. His name sounds small. Sherlock's eyes are shut and he shakes his head, once, twice, but does not speak John's name again.

John kneels beside him, only partially sheltered by the open passenger door. The rain is still light, but it drips down his back, finds its way under his collar. He quickly removes his leather jacket before it is soaked. He drapes it around Sherlock's body and tucks in the sleeves. At least, the main forefront of the storm hasn't hit – yet. But in a few more minutes …

John stands and glances down the open road in front of them, his hand on the car roof. So far, the traffic is relatively light for a Monday midmorning. A few cars pass them by but no one stops to offer assistance or question why he stands there, in the rain. Good. He wouldn't know what to tell them anyway. He is most grateful that no police cars have passed them yet. They are certain to stop to render assistance and he never forgets he has a highly illegal firearm tucked into his duffle.

_At least it's not in my back waistband._

Soon, Mycroft might be traveling the same route. He is bound to come across them, if he left the mansion around the same time.

_Call Mycroft?_

John frowns. After the words he hurled at both Regina and the elder Holmes that morning, John really does not wish to have any communication with either of them, at least not today. And he knows without being told what the detective would say if his brother were to find them like this. Or if John were to call on him for assistance.

_But what to do for Sherlock?_

He glances up the road again and then bends down to observe the detective, who has not really moved at all, other than to pull his legs together, to the seat edge, and then wrap his arms around them. His head droops, his left cheek against the seat. His eyes are closed and he frowns. John notes the rapid eye movement – is Sherlock in REM sleep? Just like that?

John shakes his head. More likely, the detective is experiencing a flashback – a state more than familiar to John Watson. John watches Sherlock for signs of extreme agitation, but notes none. Sweat beads along the detective's hairline and his breathing has perceptibly quickened. His fists clench and tighten around his knees.

**OooOooO**

**Twenty-three years earlier -**

Sherlock stands in front of his father, his eyes wide. His thin chest heaves, both from the running and his obvious overly emotional state. Nicholas Holmes notes it, as well as his son's flushed countenance, bitten lips, and his hands clenched into tight balls.

The merest of smiles tugs his lips upward.

Sherlock knows that smile. He shudders.  _Involuntary response to external stimuli. Can't be helped_.  _Still – he knows better._

"Sherlock, you are to remain here. Mr. Patterson and I will fetch Ms. Henderson back to the house."

"Father, please. I need to go with you. I know where she is and it will be faster if I—"

Nicholas Holmes turns, and the light from the carriage lamp outside the front door shines through the leaded glass. His ginger curls appear gold in the refracted light, backlit by the grey and purple shades of twilight. And the oncoming storm.

His eyes narrow and his glance rakes up and down his son's slight form.

"I believe I made my wishes known, Sherlock. You are in no physical state at the moment to render assistance. I am certain I can locate Ms. Henderson. Provided, of course, that your directions were clear."

The meaning is plain.

Sherlock stares back at him. His young heart pounds in his chest. Beads of sweat break out along his hair line. But no one notices as his curls are already plastered to his head with rainwater. His breath fails him and all he can do is nod, once.

"Yes, Sir. They were clear."

His father nods. "I would expect nothing less of you, Sherlock."

Someone comes up behind Sherlock. The boy knows without turning it is his new language tutor, a man he has little use for and he thinks he might come to despise. But then, he hates anyone who gives in to father – himself most of all.

Nicholas Holmes looks over Sherlock's head. "Ah, Erick. Excellent. It seems that my son's nurse has managed to injure herself. Would you please accompany me to find her and return her to the house?"

Erick Patterson glances once at Sherlock Holmes as he stands in front of Nicholas Holmes, his young face utterly pale. Then he looks to his employer.

"Of course, Sir."

"Good. We will need to bring two of the larger umbrellas. Sherlock says she is in a small copse, by the third stream. We should be able to find her with no trouble."

"Father –" Sherlock says, his voice thin and high.

Nicholas Holmes pauses, his hand on the door knob. He does not turn but merely tilts his head to the side and waits. His hand tightens on the brass knob.

There is a pause. No one speaks.

Sherlock ducks his head. "Nothing, Father. I'll wait here."

Nicholas Holmes turns to face his son. His voice is coldly demanding. "Perhaps it would be for the best if you wait in my study, Sherlock."

He regards his youngest son's pale complexion and tangled curls. "Yes. I think that would be best for all concerned."

Sherlock lifts his head and stares into his father's green eyes. He swallows, his thin Adam's apple bobs in his slender throat.

"But I – all right, Father."

Nicholas Holmes nods once. "And take this opportunity to clean yourself up, Sherlock. You have mud on your shoes and grass stains on the knees of your trousers. Unacceptable." He glances at the math tutor. "Coming, Patterson?"

"Yes sir. Right behind you."

The two men leave.

Sherlock stands and watches them go. He feels as if his heart will pound out of his chest. He glances down at the barely noticeable stains on the knees of his trousers.

Ms. Henderson is expecting him to come back. She's  _expecting_  him!

He lifts his head and stares at the closed door. His eyes fill.

"Sherlock? Whatever is the matter, child?"

He turns slowly to regard Regina Holmes who stands a few feet away from him. His words rush out and tumble over themselves.

"Mother, Ms. Henderson is hurt. She fell. It's my fault. Father has gone to fetch her. May I please go with –"

Regina Holmes glances out the glass sidelights of the ornately engraved front door at the darkening sky. As she watches, a lightning flash lights up the distant horizon.

She shakes her head at her son. "Sherlock, you will remain here. I'm sorry Ms. Henderson is injured but your father will bring her back safely. We'll then ascertain if she requires medical assistance."

"But Mother, her ankle, it may be broken. " He bites his lower lip and his hands tremble at his sides.  _Father – father went after her. And he doesn't approve of Ms. Henderson. He never has_.

"Please, Mother. I can be of assistance if you will just allow me—"

"No son. The weather has turned foul. Come, we'll wait together."

She moves to put an arm around her youngest but he shrugs her off in intense irritation. "I'm not a baby, mother. I can stand here on my own."

She eyes him shrewdly, sees the faint grass stains at his knees, the sweat along his curls and the way his hands clench into tight balls. The skin around her son's knuckles is nearly white with tension.

"Sherlock, go and change your clothing. Wash your hands and face and attempt to bring some order to your hair. By the time you return here, you will be more calm."

"Please, Mother –"

"I will not repeat myself, son."

He looks into her gray eyes and swallows. "Very well." At the stairs he pauses briefly, then rushes up the stairs.

She calls after him. "We are not heathen in this house, Sherlock. Walk. One injury this evening is quite enough."

His back stiffens at the implied thought that this evening is somehow his fault –  _Well, it is,_ he thinks.

"Yes, Mother," he calls but does not turn to face her again. Deliberately he slows his headlong rush up the stairs and completes the rest of the journey with carefully measured steps. At the top of the winding stair, he turns left and walks down the hall.

Once out of his mother's sight, Sherlock stops and waits. A moment, and he hears her determined footsteps on the hardwood floors. She's returned to her study or to see Cook.

_Excellent._

Sherlock goes to his room, finds his best torch, and eyes the window. A bit too high for his tastes, particularly in the dark. He walks quietly back to the top of the stairs and listens again.

Nothing.

_Most excellent._

He comes back down the winding stairs, listens again, then turns toward his father's study. The window in there is more easily opened and he will be at ground level.

He pulls the study door closed behind him, ignores the room, the sight of so much tension lately between him and his male parent, and as quietly as possible, edges the window open. His slight body easily fits between the window and the ledge and the next moment, he is on the ground and tearing back toward the first of the streams. He does not flick the button on his torch. Not yet. After all, he knows these grounds as well as he knows his own room.

Mycroft would be proud of him, rushing to take care of Ms. Henderson. He must remember to tell him.

 _Steady on, now. Not too much farther_. He races over the lawns in the dark. Far off, more lightning flashes. Very good. The occasional flashes will help him to see, without relying on the torch.

As he runs, Sherlock's mind grapples.  _Father doesn't approve of her. I don't know why. Or_   _perhaps it's me. Yes, it's certain to be me. She's always so careful to keep me out of his way. I've noted it. I wonder if she knows I know…she's very kind. But she's so small. Smaller than me. He's never really liked her, if he likes anyone. And whoever father does not approve of_  … His thoughts veer off and a suffocating feeling of terror threatens to choke off his air supply.

As he hurries through the dark, his left hand rubs unconsciously at the still tender bruise on his side. He looked again this morning. The deep purple fingermarks are nearly gone. What bruising is left is nearly all greenish yellow.

_Interesting. I must remember to note the color change in my anatomy book._

_But never let Ms. Henderson see it. She'll blame herself that she didn't keep me away from him. Not her fault. She has to have a free day sometime. There's the first stream. Now turn right but stay back from the path. Father mustn't see me until it's too late to send me back._

He knows he'll pay for it later. And doesn't much care either. As long as she's all right.

Someone hurries by him in the dark, several dozen yards to his right. Whoever it is never sees him in the dark. Never even turns his head. The person is panting with exertion. Sherlock's lips curl in derision.

 _Patterson. Father has sent him back for some reason. His wind can't be very good; he's huffing like an engine._ Sherlock breathes as quietly as possible and crouches down until he's certain his new language tutor has gone past him toward the house.

_Idiot. He never even saw me. An idiot, but still useful. His accents are flawless. My French is impeccable; he needs to stop haranguing me over it. I'll learn Latin. It's a dead language, but extremely helpful for the science. Esperanto might come in useful. And Italian, of course … I'll travel one day. I'll go loads of places. I'll take Ms. Henderson with me. She can be my tutor. When we're not traveling, I'll have a flat in London. Mye can find Ms. Henderson a place of her own, as well. Mine will be close to the museums, of course. And on the main lines. I'll have a laboratory too. I hope Mye remembers those books he promised me from Uni. I can sit by her and read them to her._

Sherlock Holmes runs forward in the dark, consciously keeping low to the ground, so his slight body will not be seen should he have to engage the torch. Another lightning flash. The rain will begin in earnest soon. This little shower is nothing.

_If she were to leave – if Father were to dismiss her, I'd leave too. I wonder if she'd let me go with her. We could study the bees together. I won't be nearly ten forever. Mye says I'll go to university in a few years, much sooner than the others. I wonder if she'll leave then and teach? She has her certificate; I looked at her papers when she was with Mother. She could teach. How wonderful if she taught at – Cambridge - if Mye is correct. And Mye is usually correct. Cambridge it is then. She will teach at Cambridge. And come visit me often. We'll travel. Mye too, if he stops being stupid. But he has to remember that she's mine. I found her first._

_Hurry now. Don't trip._

_The shortest distance between two points is a straight line…._

**OooOooO**

John narrows his eyes at Sherlock's unconscious posture. _Fetal position._  Sherlock is nearly in the fetal position. John has been in therapy long enough to recognize that this is  _a bit not good_. Still, Sherlock seems to acknowledge his presence, he nods – once - when spoken to, which means he is at least partially aware of his surroundings. And, John has seen him similarly curled up on their sofa many times. Perhaps things aren't as bad as he initially feared.

John crouches on his haunches, his hands clasped in front of him and watches Sherlock for a moment. His mind races. He runs through numerous scenarios – none of them satisfactory.

He calls Mycroft. Describes what he believes to be an involuntary flashback, possibly triggered by the sight of the small acorn pendant now safely in John's pocket. Ever the pragmatist, the elder Holmes brother sends an ambulance. And whisks Sherlock – and probably John with him – away for 'observation' at some psychiatric institution.

_NO._

He calls Mycroft. Mycroft demands to know what is going on and for how long. John tells him. And the elder Holmes brother immediately consults Regina Holmes. The Holmes matron takes charge – and an ambulance arrives. Same scenario.

_NO._

He calls Maggie Oakton. Or Galen Dennison. They seem to be joined at the hip these days. If Galen, the noted psychiatrist takes the preordained route and demands John call an ambulance in order to take care of Sherlock's immediate physical needs first. Then he arranges for psychiatric help for Sherlock. And the head doctors take their own sweet time with consultation regarding his mental needs.

The detective wakes up in the psych ward of some -

NO!

He calls Maggie Oakton. She asks what led up to this attack. John refuses to betray Sherlock's trust; Maggie recommends immediate hospitalization. Take care of the physical first and then –

_Nope._

John shakes his head and pinches the bridge of his nose.

_Bloody hell._

Well, he's still a doctor, no matter what that sodding letter says. Time to start acting like one.

He places his fingers over the pulse point in Sherlock's right wrist and counts the beats as he looks at his watch. Sherlock's pulse is quickened, but not enough to cause overt concern. At least not yet. John gently thumbs one of the dark eyebrows. There is a slight reaction, but Sherlock does not open his eyes. He wants to pull back one eyelid, but if Sherlock is 'elsewhere' at the moment – and all indications are that this is the case – John does not want to interject any more stimuli at the moment. Finally, John observes his breathing, and places a warm hand lightly over the detective's heart. Breathing quickened, heart rate elevated. Eyes now twitching behind closed lids. Slight sheen of sweat on the pale forehead.

Flashback. Involuntary. The problem is, John has no idea how long this will continue. John has two choices: sit here and observe or get them both someplace quiet, and off this road, out of this sodding rain.

John frowns. He momentarily considers turning on the car radio, and cranking the volume up. Then decides against it. That tactic might work if Sherlock were awake and at least partially aware of his surroundings. Which he obviously is not. In his current state, it just might tip him over the edge.

_But he appeared just fine and was talking to me not less than five minutes ago. Is this what I looked like to others? How many times has Sherlock seen me like this – and never mentioned it?_

The last actual flashbacks John can recall experiencing occurred a few weeks earlier, when the first bomb detonated in the Crandall mansion, and later that same day, in the lower floors of the crumbling mansion, while bombs exploded around him _._ When the love of his life was trapped in a burning laboratory.

 _But each of those lasted – what? Thirty seconds?_   _A minute, tops?_

He has no frame of reference for the other, more violent episodes he has experienced.

John's pale hair is soon damp with rain; drops fall down his forehead, his nose and cheeks, and drip down on the dark grey carpet of Mycroft's car. In a few more minutes, his jumper, button-down and trousers will be utterly soaked through.

And John can't be arsed to care.

He crouches with his forearms resting on his thighs and simply observes. What would Maggie recommend? But the rain begins in earnest and there's no time to have a lengthy conversation with the psychologist. At the very least, she'd demand to know what was going on.

Damned if John can tell her.

What did his American friends used to say?  _When all else fails, fall back and punt._

He refrains from touching Sherlock further and speaks slowly and calmly, making certain to keep his tone of voice casual, non-threatening.

"Sherlock? Hey, come back to me, okay?"

Sherlock's mouth opens slightly, as if he would speak, but then he shakes his head. He does not open his eyes.

_Okay. He is aware I'm here. He just reacted to my request. He's not that far gone._

John considers the shivering man who sits in front of him. Is Sherlock beginning to remember? And if so, remember what, exactly?

" _Jeesus, Sherlock,"_  John breathes.  _What the bloody hell am I supposed to do here?"_

_**OooOooO** _

**Twenty-three years earlier –**

He walks quietly by the far side of the path. The ground is already muddy and although it's autumn and the entire path is covered with fallen leaves, they are so wet that his footsteps make little noise.

And then he's there. He can hear his father. Sherlock stops for a minute to catch his breath. Should he walk up and announce his presence?

His father's voice carries in the dark, the tones deep, ironic.

"Ms. Henderson, please refrain from moving about. You'll only exacerbate your injury."

He hears Ms. Henderson's voice. She must be in a great deal of pain. Her voice sounds thin – and small.

"Mr. Holmes, I sent Sherlock –"

"Yes. I realise you sent my youngest son rushing headlong into the dark during a thunderstorm in order to fetch help. Well, assistance has arrived. Please remain still. Mr. Patterson will return soon with blankets. Remain under the umbrella."

"All right."

Sherlock hears the slightest of sounds. He creeps forward a few more feet. Then hesitates again. His torch remains in his hand, unlit.

"Which ankle is it?"

"The – left."

"Yes. Hold on. There, is that –"

Her cry of pain is quickly bitten off. Sherlock's eyes widen. His hands clench on the torch.

"You have my apologies . Yes, it definitely appears broken. Hold still."

"What are you –"

"My scarf will have to serve as a pressure bandage, however inadequate, until we can get you medical attention. "

Sherlock walks forward a few more feet, then crouches behind the nearest bush. He can  _nearly_  see his father's tall figure. He worries at his lip. If his parent finds him here, the consequences will be disastrous. And it sounds as if Ms. Henderson will be all right. Perhaps he can stay, remain quiet, wait for Mr. Patterson to return …

"You know that I know, Mr. Holmes, correct?"

Dead silence.

"Ah. Yes, I was certain that it was you at the door, my dear. Couldn't have been anyone else really. "

"I assure you, I was not purposely listening in on your conversation with your son."

"Of course not. And what did we learn?"

Nicholas Holmes' voice is casually amused. If Sherlock did not know any better, he'd say his male parent was in a humorous mood.

He knows better.

"How you can stand in front of me and calmly talk about what amounts to a blatant case of ongoing mental abuse on your part is beyond me, Mr. Holmes. And you should know I intend to do something about it before it goes any further."

"You speak like a scholar, my dear. I can see why Regina engaged you."

Sherlock hears the slightest of sounds, which tells him Nicholas Holmes has seated himself on one of the rocks _. The larger, flat one. That's the one I sit on when I'm drawing._

"Please enlighten me. In what way am I abusing my son? And Ms. Henderson, do try to be interesting. I abhor a boring conversationalist."

"Sherlock is terrified of you. Surely you see that?"

"My son needs to develop the hardiness of character that distinguishes his older brother, I am afraid. No matter. I will instill that in him soon enough. He has it in him to be a scientist, a great one, if we can rid him of certain  _emotional_ tendencies."

"He's a child, Mr. Holmes. Of course, he has emotional tendencies, as you put it. What child doesn't? Sherlock has a great capacity for empathy. He has a joy of learning, a love of life that is astounding. He is learning at an astonishing rate and –"

"He's my  _ **son**_ , Ms. Henderson. And I decide what is best for his mental development. You would do well to remember that fact. It has been my observation that sentiment can be considered as a chemical defect. Sherlock is better off without it."

"Dear God!"

"Apt observation, my dear. At least in this household. Now hold still, please."

"Sherlock is not Mycroft."

Another rustling sound. "Another astute observation, if a bit lacking in detail. You look uncomfortable, my dear. Here, let me help adjust your position. And what is this? Ah, I see. A token from my son? Childish. He must have worked long and hard on this."

"Please – you're too close."

"Nonsense, my dear. I'm merely offering my coat as a makeshift blanket until Mr. Patterson joins us. I see my son has already left you his jacket as a cushion. And it's becoming quite cold. I should have administered this immediately."

The slightest of sounds, a metal cap being turned. Sherlock's hand grasps his torch, his finger on the button.

"Whatever that is, I don't require it, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock takes a step closer. Over their heads, the rain picks up. Behind him, he hears rushed footsteps as they slog over the wet winter grass. Mr. Patterson. He can see the ghostly wavering of his language tutor's torch as it bobs along the ground toward them.

"I'm afraid I must insist, my dear."

"No. Please."

Her voice comes as a tiny sound in the near steady rain. The merest of protests. His head whips around but before he can say anything, Patterson is there with the blankets and extra torches.

"Ah, Erick. Good man. You arrived just in time. I'm afraid Ms. Henderson is worse off than we feared."

"Here, sir. I hurried. There's no way to get a vehicle to this space, not with all this mud. But Mr. Edwards has brought one of the cars down the drive and we only have to carry her a quarter mile, less than that. Follow the path sir, then get her into the car and up to the house. And then to hospital, if need be."

"Good man. Help me cover her over."

"She's a little one, Sir. I can carry her easily enough."

"Nonsense. She's my son's nurse. I'll carry her. No worries. Now if you'll be kind enough to keep the umbrella over our heads. This way, is it? Excellent. Let's go."

"He's flashing his lights sir, so we can follow easily enough."

Sherlock shrinks back from the path and crouches down again. In another moment, his parent passes by, his arms full of Ms. Henderson. His language tutor follows immediately, holding the umbrella over both their heads. The rain has picked up and the night is now utterly dark around them. Murky.

Sherlock watches them go, confusion written over his face.

_What just happened? She was talking just fine a moment ago. Did she pass out from the pain? I couldn't have helped. He would have lectured me and that would have only served to upset her. It would have gotten both of us in trouble. This way, she'll be all right. I'll go over the hills and in through the side door. If I hurry, I can be back at the house before they are. It means running in the rain. I'll be the only one he catches tonight. No matter. She's shielded me before. It's my turn to help her._

"Wait, Sir. Something snagged. A necklace or some such thing. I'm afraid it's broken."

"Leave it. The important thing is to get her out of this bloody weather, man."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes."

And then they are gone. Sherlock straightens up, then turns to look down the path, toward the way he came. He can just barely see the flash of car headlights. Once, twice. A pause, then it repeats.

He cups his hand around his torch, then clicks the button, careful to aim it downward at his feet. He walks gingerly a few feet forward, until he can make out the small pile of rocks by the path, which means if he turns left now, he can go straight over the lawn and come out at the garden wall.

Something flashes once in his torch light. He bends over and comes up with the chain, silver in spots, muddy in others. The single acorn dangles at the end of it. As he watches, the chain slithers through the tiny broken cap, and the acorn falls at his feet, nearly smothered in a growing puddle.

Sherlock smothers his groan of dismay, then bends over and manages to find the makeshift pendant by the light of his torch. He shoves it in his pocket, turns and begins to hurry up the hills, toward home.

As he runs, he realises Ms. Henderson did not say a single word or make any response at all when Mr. Patterson came up with the blankets. Again, he wonders if she lost consciousness due to the pain of her injury?

_I've missed something. Something obvious. But what?_

His ten-year old mind grapples with the problem as he tops the first hill and begins to run more quickly over the next. Rolling thunder shatters the night sky and a single flash of lightning, cobalt white in intensity, illuminates the ominous clouds that threaten to engulf the world.

His head buzzes. Someone calls his name. He should respond. He always responds to this voice, doesn't he _? Warm. Comfort. Home._

" _John."_

Sherlock runs.

**OooOooO**

John thinks back to his numerous bouts of PTSD and believes he recognises some of the same body posturing when his own reactions were particularly bad. Difficult to tell as he was usually out of it when the incidences occurred. Still … if he resumes driving to Baker Street, which is at least 45" or more away in traffic, probably longer, what does he do if Sherlock becomes  _agitated_  in a moving vehicle?

The soldier frowns, momentarily indecisive, when a distant crack of thunder makes up his mind. He reaches for Sherlock's mobile and quickly thumbs through the list of contacts, seeking inspiration. John pauses at a certain name and his lips purse. Excellent. Just the thing. It will do for a few hours. At the very least, it will give the detective time to come back to himself. Time for John to decide who to call – if anyone. And their new destination is less than five minutes down the road.

"Sherlock, I'm getting back in the car and we're going on. But not to Baker Street, not just yet."

The detective makes no obvious sign that he hears John.

John makes certain the seat belt is fastened across the other man's chest and lap, then carefully shuts the door. He hurries to the driver's side and gets in. And makes a quick phone call.

One minute later, he tosses Sherlock's mobile onto the dash, starts the engine and they pull away into traffic. John glances at the detective, who now appears asleep, his back still to John. The ex-soldier touches a button and locks both doors, then engages the passenger side safety lock, just in case.

"Sherlock, we'll be on the road for a few minutes more. That's all. I daren't drive far when I don't know what's going on with you, okay?"

No response.

"Damn it, Sherlock, can you even hear me?"

As he drives through the increasingly heavy rain, John watches the detective out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock finally moves his head slightly. It might be a nod.

"Okay. I'll take that as a yes," John murmurs. He watches for the turnoff and puts on his turn signal. Beside him, Sherlock begins to breathe more heavily. And to moan.

**OooOooO**

John pulls up to the lovely B&B and is not surprised to see that Mr. Thanos stands there on the steps, waiting for them. Mrs. Thanos stands immediately behind her husband, a large umbrella held to ready.

They immediately come down the steps toward them, all broad smiles, and eager head bobs, obviously anxious to please the man who saved Mrs. Thanos' life the previous year.

John turns off the ignition and glances to his left. Sherlock remains curled in on himself, seemingly still in the fetal position, but John sees a slackening, a definite softening around the closed eyes and mouth that speaks of sleep and not the nearly comatose state the detective has exhibited for the short drive.

"Sherlock?" He keeps his voice purposely low and steady.

No response.

John shuts his eyes for a second and his hands tighten on the wheel. Then he shakes his head and gets out of the car. Mr. Thanos is already there. He holds the door open for John. His wife stands behind, the wide umbrella shielding all of them from the rain _. Which_ , John thinks,  _will become a downpour any second now._

"Doctor Wat-son," he says eagerly. "Kalós órises. You come. You both come."

He glances in the door, sees Sherlock's huddled body and frowns. He rushes to the passenger side to open the door. John follows him. Mrs. Thanos hurries behind, umbrella held upright over their heads. She clucks her tongue sympathetically when she sees Sherlock's quiet form.

Thanos hesitates, his hand on the door. He looks at John expectantly.

John takes a breath. And hopes this man can understand him. "Mister – Holmes - was injured slightly on a case. He's asleep. Resting. We just need to get him into the room. If he can just stay for a while …"

Thanos clucks his tongue. He shakes his head at them both.

"The poor man. No matter. We take care of him. We take care of both. Come, I carry him."

John begins to protest, no one carries Sherlock but him, but then leaves off as the burly man bends, lifts, then straightens with the detective's lanky form easily cradled in his strong arms. John's eyes widen.  _Well, all right then_. He has been a bit worried about how to get Sherlock out of the car and into the B &B but – problem solved. John forces down the tiny bit of irritation at the sight of another man holding on so tightly to his fiancée', then dismisses it as being utterly ridiculous.

_Get a grip, Watson. Seriously._

Thanos carries Sherlock quickly up the short path as if he carries a child, and ignores his wife's attempts to keep the umbrella over their heads. He walks carefully up the steps and into the welcoming warmth of the house, Sherlock's head lolling back against his barrel chest. His wife holds the door for them, then lowers the umbrella and rushes in front, down the long hall to the door of the room that Sherlock and John have used before. It is the same charming room John has begun to think of as theirs and theirs alone. Thank goodness it's available. Presumably they don't have a lot of guests on a Monday morning. Both the Jubilee and the Olympics crowds have long since cleared out, otherwise he doubts if this small haven would be vacant. He observed just two vehicles in the long driveway and both were parked near the back – obviously cars that belong to Mr. and Mrs. Thanos and perhaps one other employee.  _Good,_  thinks John. Perhaps the familiarity of their surroundings will help Sherlock snap out of whatever the hell this is.

His medical mind grapples with the symptoms at the same time the soldier in him grows impatient with the situation. John wants – no, he  _needs_  – to be active. To do something constructive to help the detective out of this. But he realises the need for caution, until he knows what the hell he is dealing with. For now, they are off the road and have a place to rest, however temporary. And, John fervently prays, someplace safe from Mycroft Holmes' incessant prying into his younger brother's life.

 _We just need time_ , he thinks. A few hours. He cannot begin to imagine how fast Mycroft would be all over this situation if he attempted to get Sherlock up the steps at Baker Street. The surveillance cameras would pick up on Sherlock's condition immediately.

Mrs. Thanos opens the door to the room for her husband, then hurries around him to turn down the bedding. Thanos deposits the detective's long body on the soft sheets. Sherlock does not move, other than to turn his cheek slightly against the cool cotton pillow. Mrs. Thanos is immediately there to remove the Italian shoes and set them on the floor in front of the antique wardrobe. She raises the window a bit for fresh air, then pulls the shade down and flicks the curtains together to help shut out the grey morning light.

John glances around, realises they will need their cases but is forestalled when Thanos raises one hand and shakes his shaggy head.

"No. No, yiatros Wat-son, companion of kyrios Holmes, you remain here. Rest. We bring."

Which means, of course, in this very Greek household, that _she_  brings.

Thanos nods encouragingly at John, then stands aside as his good woman comes back into the room, her dark hair damp with rain, their two cases in her strong hands. Thanos goes out of the room when Mrs. Thanos comes in with their bags. John quickly moves to relieve her of the weight but she just shakes her head, grins and places both bags on the floor of the open wardrobe. Thanos is back almost immediately with Sherlock's suit bag. She takes this from her husband without a word, hangs it in the wardrobe, then lifts a small snow-white hand towel and wipes down all three cases, quickly flicking away any errant rain drops. She then smiles encouragingly at John and leaves the room before he can even thank her.

John moves to cover Sherlock with the duvet. If necessary, he'll undress the detective later but is loath to do so in front of the Greek proprietor. John looks up from Sherlock's side to see a shrewd look in the dark eyes that tells him Thanos has long since figured out their relationship. But his thoughts are full of Sherlock and he has no time for other worries.

Thanos bobs his head. "You rest. Kyrios Holmes rests. We have all you need - here. Rest. Quiet. Sleep. There will be food soon."

John's stomach reminds him it has been a very long time since either of them ate a decent meal. He quickly searches his memory for the few Greek phrases he can still remember. There wasn't that much call for it in the Afghan desert.

"Para - Parakalo ," he says hesitantly. And then, "Ef-haristo," and hopes to God he has not just insulted his host.

At his feeble attempts in Greek, Thanos smiles delightedly. "Good," he says jovially. "Very good."

At the open doorway, Thanos turns to look once at Sherlock's quiet form, then over at John. He smiles, his open friendly face crinkles with warmth and delight. The smile lights his warm brown eyes; his entire body exudes welcome. John cannot help but smile back. And realises that there is nothing about their relationship that this comforting man, this friend to Sherlock and hence to himself, has not already deduced. And apparently sanctioned. At the very least, it does not seem to bother him in any way. Thanos nods firmly, then leaves them alone. He pulls the door firmly shut behind him.

John looks at the closed door for a moment, then runs a hand through his damp hair. He turns to watch Sherlock, seemingly quietly asleep in the warm bed.

John looks from the damp curls to the closed eyes, which twitch under the pale lids. Sherlock's dark lashes leave tiny purple shadows on his skin. John notes the slightly open mouth, the way that Sherlock's hand clenches in the worn cotton sheets, as if anchoring himself to the bed. He glances from the detective to the warmly-patterned wallpaper, to the round bedside table with its cheerful tablecloth and lamp, then over to the window, where he can hear the not so distant sound of thunder.

As he stands there, the rain begins in earnest. The ex-soldier listens as it sluices down the outer walls and onto the porch boards with a pattering sound.

Other than the sound of rain, the utter quiet of the morning surrounds them.

"What in bloody hell do I do now?" John Watson says aloud.

**OooOooO**

"Daddy, I'm tired."

His daughter's voice is tiny, as small as Greg Lestrade has ever heard it. He pauses in slipping the clean gown over his daughter's tiny frame, then plants a kiss on her forehead.

"I know, Sweetheart. But we're going to fix all that."

She obediently lifts her little arms as he tugs on the gown, then gently ties it around her.

She hands him the fuzzy socks – pink, of course – and he pulls these over her feet. He sees with a pang how pale and thin her body has become. Later, they'll remove them and replace them with hospital-issue socks with non-slippery soles, but for right now, she's happy and warm.

And that's all that counts.

Finally, he pulls up her pink blanket and wraps it around her. He holds out a soft pink scarf but she just shakes her bald head.

"Okay then." And Lestrade reaches up and yanks off his fishing cap. She laughs and lifts one hand to rub it over the slight fuzz. "Tickles," she whispers.

He tucks in the ends of the pink blanket.

"Better?" he asks.

She nods solemnly. Then glances around. "Daddy – where –"

"Oops! Sorry. Here you go."

The D.I. hands his youngest the rag doll and Chrissie Lestrade hugs Sally to her chest. She regards her father solemnly.

"Daddy, am I getting better? Cause I really want to go home. When can I go home? I miss Sissie. And my room. "

His breath catches at her pet name for her sister but he is careful to keep any response from his hands as he lifts and settles her back against a small mound of pillows.

"You're going to get better," he says gruffly. "And yes, I promise you, you'll get to go home soon. We all will. That's what this day is all about."

She leans back slightly, careful to avoid the myriad tangle of wires that lead from the stanchion to her slight form. He notes she has become quite expert at not dislodging any of the connections from her chest and arms.

Chrissie clutches Sally the doll to her and looks at her father's careworn face.

"This day?"

A single ray of thin light finds its way through the half-closed blinds and highlights his daughter's wan features. She looks like an angel. His and Laura's littlest angel. Something tugs at Lestrade's heart and a small spark born of grim determination begins to grow in his chest. It quickly becomes a flame.

_She may look like an angel, but he'll be God-damned if she becomes one._

He smiles at his daughter.

"Let's just say that this is now officially your 'Getting Better Day."

Chrissie Lestrade tilts her head. "A day for me?"

"Yup. A day just for you, Sweetheart. In fact, let's make it official."

Lestrade glances around, picks up a pad of paper he's used for notes, phone numbers and contacts, and rummages for his pen. He draws a square, then fills it in quickly with block letters. He shades it as best he is able with the blue ink, then holds the small 'official proclamation' up for his daughter's inspection.

"Read it, Daddy."

Putting on his best Detective Inspector voice, he solemnly intones, "I hereby declare this day as the official  _Chrissie Lestrade is Getting Better_  day." He adds a few flourishes with the pen, then hands the piece of paper to his little girl.

She takes it with a giggle, looks at it, then carefully lays it in her lap.

He bends and kisses his daughter on both cheeks. She holds up her doll, Sally.

Solemnly, he kisses the doll, then hands it back to her. She wraps both arms around Sally and smiles at her father. Someone comes into the room.

"And on that note, I think we are ready to begin."

Father and daughter look up at the nurse who stands in the doorway of the hospital room.

She pushes a small wheelchair toward the bed and Lestrade stands and moves his chair back to make room.

The nurse cocks her head at Chrissie. "You look Mah-velous, Dahling," she intones in her best American drawl. "Simply mah-velous!"

Chrissie giggles and then looks at her Daddy expectantly.

"Well, if we're ready," he says.

"We usually take our wee patients for a bit of a walk or ride before their procedures," the nurse says brightly in her own soft highland accent. "You'd like to get out of that bed and go for a short ride, wouldn't you, Chrissie?"

The little girl nods happily, albeit tiredly. "Are we coming back here?"

"Yes, Chrissie, we are. You'll get your new medicine right here in your room. But we have an aviary down the hall and while the doctors are getting your room set to rights, we thought you might like to watch the birds for a bit."

Chrissie smiles. "Is Daddy coming, too?"

The nurse glances up at Greg Lestrade. "Of course, he's coming."

Lestrade waits while the nurse disconnects a few wires, then wheels the stanchion to the side of the bed so he can bend and lift his daughter without entangling either of them.

Chrissie puts an arm around his shoulder and he lifts her easily, then sets her down in the padded chair. He fusses with the pink blanket while the nurse checks the myriad connections and silences a protesting monitor.

"Your chariot awaits, M'Lady," he says gruffly.

"You're silly, Daddy!"

She grins up at him and he holds the stanchion while the nurse positions herself behind the little girls' wheelchair.

"Ready, Chrissie?" The nurse asks.

"Are there lots of birds?"

"Yes, lots and lots of birds."

Chrissie Lestrade nods. "I'm ready."

"Good. Then let's get this chariot in motion, Ma'am."

The small party moves out of the hospital room that Greg Lestrade has come to despise and into the outer corridor. He glances back only once, at the myriad cards and notes taped to the walls, a few of them freestanding on the window ledge. He looks at the artificial flowers, garishly bright in their tiny vase and at today's growing pile of Styrofoam containers which once held coffee and tea but now only serve to take up space in the bedside bin.

When they return, the bin will be cleaned and disinfected, the sheets changed, the room put to rights. And a new stanchion, one which holds possible life-giving bone marrow, will sit by the bed.

And then  _he_  will sit by his daughter's side and wait while her "procedure" decides if his daughter will live – or die.

And that is the part he despises most of all. The waiting. Better a bullet in the knee. He turns his back on the room and pushes the stanchion carefully behind his daughter's wheelchair.

As they move down the hall, various nurses and hospital personnel all make it a point to wave to the little girl in the wheelchair or to call her by name. Calls of 'Good Luck' and 'We're counting on you, Chrissie!' follow them down the hall.

"Wave to your public, leannan," the nurse says affectionately.

Obediently, Chrissie lifts one tiny hand and does her best imitation of the royal wave.

Each time she does it, Greg Lestrade grins.

**OooOooO**

John Watson sits in a chair by the bedside and listens to the rain. He holds his mobile in his hand. Occasionally, he glances at the screen, then thumbs through the buttons. Each time, his finger hesitates over one number in particular. And each time he lowers the phone to his lap and goes back to watching Sherlock.

His mind goes round and round and he wishes Mrs. Thanos would bring some food soon. Perhaps if he eats, fills his empty belly, he can calm his thoughts. Right now, they race like a hamster on a wheel. Sherlock – PTSD – panic attacks – Sherlock - the mystery of vanishing violins – acorn pendants – Sherlock - Regina and Mycroft Holmes. And whether or not his fiancee's father is guilty of not only child abuse and obvious neglect – but cold-blooded murder.

As the detective himself would say, he doesn't have all the facts. And theorizing without facts is just grounds for insanity. At best, it makes for piss-poor detective work.

John does not feel that his mental processes have been adversely affected by his panic attacks or flashbacks. But he knows plenty of vets, some of them former colleagues, who unfortunately cannot say the same.

As he watches Sherlock sleep, he pushes down the thought, the gut-wrenching, utterly terrifying thought of what this attack might have done to an amazing mind.

It doesn't bear thinking about.

Well, he'll know more when Sherlock wakes up. Which should be quite soon.

John tries to remember the worst of his own bouts and cannot remember how long he remained 'under.' Sherlock told him once that the longest appeared to last a bit over an hour, the shortest, less than a minute. After that, Sherlock told him, John slept. Just simple, healing sleep. And Sherlock remained with him until he woke up. The detective has never mentioned the worst of John's 'occurrences.' Whether this has been out of deference to John or because he simply did not want to discuss such matters, John has never figured out.

The fact that Sherlock _has_  answered his questions a few times after such episodes, tells him a great deal about the detective's evolving mental and emotional processes over the two years they have lived together. Sherlock Holmes has never been the most nurturing of individuals. If anyone had asked John for a description of the detective in the first few months of their friendship, John would have started with 'condescending, royal bastard' and gone on from there. However, his exacting care over the past few months continues to amaze John.

Now if only he can return the favor.

He glances at his watch. It's been a bit over an hour now since they stopped by the side of the road. Sherlock is definitely asleep. The quiet rise and fall of the thin chest attests to that.

And then there's the snoring.

John smiles briefly. He need only nudge the detective onto his side and the quiet snoring will cease. But he's loath to stop watching the beautiful face sleep.

He glances up as the door quietly opens. Mrs. Thanos comes in with a loaded tray and John quickly rises to his feet to help her.

She smiles and shakes her head. She walks to the small table in the middle of the room and deposits the tray. Then deftly sets out plates, tea cups, utensils and piles of food.

John watches in amazement as she fills plates with steaming hot food, obviously freshly prepared. There is a loaf of warm bread, just out of the oven, huge olives swimming in oil, a small half-round of cheese, heaps of steaming vegetables and skewers of onions, small tomatos and what he assumes is lamb. Beside each plate, she sets out a small bowl of what John recognises as hummus, along with plates of flat bread. The divine smell of cooked onions reminds him how very hungry he is. She fills the cups with hot tea and finally sets down a pot of her own signature apricot jam.

She glances over the table, nods briskly, and looks at John. "Please. Eat," she urges him.

John hesitates, glances at the bed.

She follows his gaze, then turns to John. He looks into the most sympathetic and luminous dark brown eyes he ever remembers seeing.

She smiles gently and hesitantly pats him on the arm.

"Eat. He sleeps. You eat now, yes?"

John nods. "Yes, all right. Thank you."

She nods briskly, carefully covers one of the plates to keep the food warm, then takes the now empty tray in her strong hands and crosses to the bed. She stands for a moment and looks down at the sleeping man. John watches her in puzzlement. Her brown hand nearly reaches out to brush away one of the errant dark curls. It pauses at the last moment, and she drops her hand to her side.

Mrs. Thanos lifts her head and John swears he sees her eyes fill. Then she mutters something under her breath and goes out of the room, pulling the door shut behind her with a small click.

In the bed, Sherlock stirs. But doesn't awaken.

John watches him for a moment, then seats himself and picks up his fork. The heavenly smell of home-cooked Greek cuisine hits him in the nostrils and his stomach muscles actually contract.

He lays his mobile by the side of his plate, glances again at Sherlock, then tucks in.

**OooOooO**

"Jones," the young man manages to stutter out. "My name is Jones."

The hell of it is, Terry Roaman thinks, as he tosses the driver's license onto the table, the kids name _is_  Jones. Unbelievable.

"All right _, Ryan Jones,_  we need to discuss a few things."

Terry Roaman sits opposite the teenager at the bare metal table. He leans back so as to present as unthreatening a presence as possible and idly shoves the glass of iced water toward the young man.

The teen looks at Roaman, then nods his thanks and reaches for the water. He drinks, then places it carefully back on the table, in the exact spot it sat in. The water ring even matches.

Terry notes this but does not comment on it.

The kid sits and fidgets, all the while he watches Terry and behind Terry, Jake Lynn, who leans against the wall, arms crossed, and observes.

Unlike Terry, who appears as harmless as possible, given the circumstances, and even smiles encouragingly at the kid now and then, Jake frowns at the teen. He never takes his dark eyes off his face. And he never moves.

Before the interrogation, Jake took out a coin. "Call it," he tells Terry. "Tails gets bad cop."

Terry just shakes his head. "Jake, you've already got that look down. Let's just go with it, okay?"

Jake pockets the coin. And nods. "Okay."

In the interrogation room, which is bare of furniture, other than the metal table and several chairs, Jake stands and watches as Terry does his best to ingratiate himself with the young man.

 _Honestly_ , Jake thinks.  _What are the criminal classes coming to?_   _Employing kids to do their dirty_   _work?_  But just what dirty work has been done, he's not certain. Other than the fact that this  _Ryan Jones_  was following Lizabeth and presumably Deborah the week before, he honestly hasn't got a clue as to what to charge him with: following too close in traffic? Ogling pretty women? Jones has as good as admitted he was following Lizabeth, but is that a crime?

Jake's not certain. He frowns. And remains utterly still.

Ryan Jones glances from Terry Roaman's open pleasant face to the tall man who leans against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

His heart threatens to beat out of his thin chest. His palms are damp and he seriously needs the loo. Again.

"I can explain," he says, licking his dry lips. He looks from the seated agent to the one who stands against the wall. "About the violin, that is." He looks at Terry beseechingly. "I can explain about all of that."

The agents, neither one of whom know what in the hell he is talking about, merely nod and go along with it.

"Excellent," Terry Roaman says quietly. "Tell us about the violin, then, Ryan Jones."

Ryan licks his dry lips, then glances up at Jake Lynn. Who hasn't budged an inch since he came into the room.

He nods. At one or both of the men, Terry isn't certain.

"Okay, then."

He begins to speak.

**OooOooO**

John finishes with one of the most amazing meals he's ever experienced. Then glances at Sherlock. The detective has turned over on his side and continues to sleep. But John sees signs of increasing restlessness.

Sherlock will wake up shortly. And he will do everything he can to get the man to eat before they go on.

In the meantime, John glances around the room, then at the table, still nearly groaning under the weight of the Greek food. He has to thank her for her hospitality. Anything else is unthinkable.

He stands over Sherlock for a moment, who continues to sleep. John takes the detective's pulse. His heart rate has long since settled down. His chest rises and falls slowly. The man is simply sleeping it off. Excellent.

John leaves the door slightly open so he can hear Sherlock call him as the detective will wake up soon and be more than a bit surprised at his surroundings.

He walks down the hall and finds Mrs. Thanos dusting in the parlor or sitting room, he supposes. She looks at him and smiles, then crosses to the mantel over the fireplace. She begins to carefully flick her duster over the photographs that sit there.

He follows her. A dozen framed photographs sit on the mantle. He glances over them. She notes his obvious interest, hesitates, then picks up one photo in a silver frame and shyly hands it to John. He looks into her eyes, and takes the photograph from her. A young man, younger than John was when he deployed, smiles out at the camera. Mr. Thanos stands beside the young man, his hands crossed in front of his sturdy body. He beams at the camera. The family resemblance is strong. Same dark hair, same messy curls, the young man is taller than Thanos by a half foot. He wears the uniform of the British Army.

John thinks he understands. And his heart sinks.

He looks into Mrs. Thanos' eyes. "Your - son?" he asks hesitantly.

"Yios." She nods once, her eyes full. "Yios." She takes the photo from John and looks carefully at it, then sets the precious photograph back in its pride of place on the mantel.

John clears his throat. He doesn't know how to ask.

"Afghanistan," Mr. Thanos says from his back. John turns. He never heard the man come into the room.

Mrs. Thanos turns from both of them and busies herself with dusting the lampshades in the sitting room. The off-white, immaculately clean lampshades.

"I'm very sorry," John says quietly.

Thanos nods. "Yes. Spiros. My son."

 _My_ son. Not their son.  _My son._

John is gently reminded, once again, that he is in a Greek household. He glances at the photos on the mantle again. Most of them are of the same beautiful young man. All dark curls and dark eyes, olive skin and glowing face. All of them taken at various stages of life, from childhood through adulthood. Or what passes for adulthood at age nineteen. He does not see any other children, no daughters. Only Spiros Thanos and his father. Spiros Thanos and his mother. And what John assumes are older female relatives. Aunts, perhaps. Or cousins?

Thanos beckons him. "Come, you look." He crosses to a bookshelf in the corner and reaches. He returns with an old fashioned scrap book in his hands. And hands it encouragingly to John.

John opens it, expecting to see more photos of Spiros Thanos. What he sees amazes him. He takes the book to a nearby chair, sits, and begins to carefully turn the pages.

The book appears to be full of newspaper clippings, carefully cut out and mounted. Sherlock's name jumps out at him.

" _Amateur detective helps police solve Carson triple murder."_  John glances at the date. One year before he met Sherlock.

" _London-based consulting detective helps Interpol with their latest conundrum."_ John recognises one of the first cases he and Sherlock worked on together.

" _Our boy Holmes, at it again_ ," screams one particularly lurid headline. And there's a grainy photograph of Sherlock, his back nearly turned to the camera, and there is John himself, following behind, as always.

John turns the pages of the homemade scrapbook carefully. Page after page is the same. Sherlock's exploits. Some of them mention John Watson, most of them don't. He is Sherlock's 'assistant' or Sherlock Holmes' constant male companion. John grins.

Mr. Thanos watches him, then gently reaches out and turns two or three pages at once. An announcement of their impending union. He has read it before. And not for the first time, wonders who in hell leaked it to the media. Thanos nods at him, and smiles. Then he turns several more pages. And taps the single article taped to the heavier sheet below.

And here is the article, small print, a single heartbreaking column, that tells of Mrs. Thanos' near escape from being accused of murder. And of how Sherlock Holmes solved the case in record time in order to "clear an innocent's name."

John looks down at the date, just a year past, and at the newsprint, well worn, after only twelve months, most assuredly from constant touch. It is held to the paper below it with a single piece of tape. Obviously, the article has been read and reread many times over. A precious family heirloom, never to be lost. Always to be brought out at family gatherings and read aloud.

He frowns at the fact that this mystery deserved only a tiny bit of newsprint, a single column, as it clearly dealt with Greek immigrants and not with "proper" English-born citizens. It probably was printed well back in the newspaper and not on page one or two.

He looks up at Thanos. The man nods encouragingly.

"You see, companion to Sher-lock? You see? He – and you - saved the woman of the house. Very smart, yes?"

_The Woman of the House._

John's eyes fill suddenly and he clears his throat. He hands the precious scrapbook to Thanos, who takes it in his strong hands. He makes a show of crossing the room to replace it carefully on the shelf. John knows he takes his time in order to let the other man in the room – himself – get a grip.

John rubs a hand over his eyes, then stands.

"Thank you," he says haltingly. "I need to check on Sherlock – Mr. Holmes now."

Thanos holds up a beefy hand. "You stay. Just for a moment, yes? I check kyrios Holmes."

He hurries from the room but not without looking past John, and nodding once.

John frowns, then turns as Mrs. Thanos comes forward, something small and square held in her brown hands.

She comes up to John - they are nearly the same height – and holds out a small box toward him, covered in what John thinks might be emerald green silk. The fabric is worn at the edges. The catch, once a bright gold, now discolored with age.

"Please," she says in her halting English. "Please."

John looks at her, then takes the small box on his palm. It is very light.

As he holds it, she carefully lifts the lid. On a bed of deep emerald velvet, John sees two rings. Silver, he thinks. They glint in the soft room light. Each ring displays a pattern of small intertwining boxes in what John recognizes as the Greek key design. He would not have this simple fact at hand if it weren't for a case Sherlock solved six months back, one involving stolen Greek artifacts. As it is, the rings are quite old and the pattern which was once undoubtedly clear cut, is now softened with age.

John looks at the rings, not understanding what this kind woman wants of him.

Mrs. Thanos – he wonders what her name is – carefully turns the box toward her, still on John's open palm. She lifts one ring from the box. It leaves an indentation, as if it has rested there for many, many years.

She holds the ring out to John. He balances the box on his right hand and takes the single ring in his left. He looks at it quizzically, then looks at Mrs. Thanos.

She nods at him encouragingly.

He lifts the ring again and turns it this way and that in the light. He can just make out a tiny inscription on the inside of the ring, engraved in faint flowing script.

He shakes his head. "I'm so sorry. I cannot read Greek," he says. He hands the ring carefully back to Mrs. Thanos.

"No," she says slowly. "O-hi." She hands the ring back to John. He frowns at her.

"I'm sorry," he begins. "What do you -"

"Companion to Sher-lock. Here."

Mr. Thanos comes up behind him and he takes the box from John's hand. Mrs. Thanos watches her husband and nods, smiling gently.

John continues to hold the single ring between his thumb and forefinger.

Thanos takes the box from him, and looks at both rings for a moment, the one in John's hand and the one that remains in the box. One of them is slightly larger than the other. Other than that, they appear identical. Two spheres of shining silver, John assumes it is silver, carefully preserved.

Thanos picks up one ring, kisses it, places it back in the box, then gently takes the ring from John, kisses this one also, and places it back in its tiny velvet nest. He shuts the box and hands it back to John, entirely unself-conscious over his actions.

John stares at him.

"Mr. Thanos?"

"Spiros – my son. They were to be his wedding rings. Now – no. They belonged to my woman's –" He hesitates, seeking for the right word. "They belong to the mother of her mother. The ya-ya, you understand?"

John is not certain he hears him correctly but nods as if he does.

"We bring with us to this country, to Eng-land. Now –" he pushes the box gently toward John. "Now they are yours. Companion to Sher-lock."

John looks in amazement at the old man's eyes and realizes for the first time that Mr. Thanos is older than he appears. There is gray in the dark hair, but the man exudes strength and health and John has always assumed he is just a bit older than a certain Army doctor. He looks in the sympathetic gaze and revises his opinion. If they had a son who was at least – what? Nineteen when he enlisted? He mentally adds another fifteen years to his estimation of Thanos' age.

John looks from Mr. Thanos to the woman of the house. She nods encouragingly at him. She, too, puts her warm hands on the small emerald box and pushes it slightly toward John.

"Please," she repeats. "Please."

"Yes," Thanos says to John's amazement. "You and kyrios Sherlock – you are to be married, correct? Or to be joined as companions ? I do not know how the English say it. I read it, me. Please. These are for you. For saving us."

_For saving us._

_Us._

John shakes his head. "I – I can't. I cannot take these. They belong to your family, to your wife's –" he breaks off when he sees Mrs. Thanos' eyes. Wide and brown and filled with sudden tears. She glances from John's open face toward the mantel. John follows her gaze to the photograph of Spiros Thanos.

Spiros Thanos. The Son of the House.  Killed in action in Afghanistan. 

He looks down at the rings,  brought to this country, lovingly preserved through generations, for the next male heir to give to his bride. The male heir who died serving his new country. There will be no wedding now, no daughter-in-law, no grandchildren for the Thanos family.

Now, there is only the two of them.

John looks from the photograph to Mrs. Thanos and then to Mr. Thanos. The shrewd brown eyes watch him carefully. And John knows he watches him to see that he doesn't crush the good intentions and heartfelt wishes of the woman of his house.

John clears his throat. His cheeks warm.

"Thank you," he says quietly. "I thank you, on behalf of Mr. Holmes – of Sherlock and myself." He searches his memory "Efharisto? Thank you."

Mr. Thanos nods encouragingly. "Good," he grins. "Very, very good."

Mrs. Thanos sniffs once, then pats John on the wrist. She returns to her housework, as if the tiny interlude never happened.

John stands there in the warm, immaculately clean living area of the small Bed and Breakfast and slowly opens the box again, watched closely by Mr. Thanos. Wonderingly, he takes out one ring, the larger of the two and looks at it. He tilts it in the light but is reluctant to try it on his finger. What if it doesn't fit? Presumably, these things can be –  _sized_? That's the correct term, sized, right?

Thanos grins at him, as if discerning John's thoughts. He nods. "Yes, you try," he says with amusement.

John grins back. He carefully slips the ring over the third finger of his left hand.

It fits perfectly.

"Good! Very, very good. Is good – sign – yes?" Thanos says.

Across the room, Mrs. Thanos glances at the two men and shakes her head.

She goes back to her dusting.

**OooOooO**

"He came into the shop and offered me a job, just like that."

Terry leans forward toward the teen. He clasps his hands in front of him on the table, the very picture of trust.

"What type of job, Ryan? And what shop?"

Ryan Jones shakes his head as if the cop – he assumes they are both cops – is a bit thick.

"The music shop in Basingstoke. I worked there for six months or so. Boring. But it paid the rent a bit."

He looks from Terry's friendly face to Jake Lynn's stern one. He much prefers Roaman's.

"I had just sold one of our violins, a student's practice violin, to this guy, you know? And about an hour later, this man comes into the shop and offers me this job. All I had to do was switch violins."

Terry looks at him interestingly. "Switch violins?"

Ryan nods. He is much more relaxed now and maybe, just maybe if he can get through this, they will feed him and let him go. Food would be nice right now. Maybe a sandwich. Maybe two. He can't remember the last time he ate.

He takes another sip of water. His stomach begins to hurt a bit. He chalks it down to hunger.

"Yeah. He brought a violin in with him, in its case. He handed me the instrument and said all I had to do was ship it to the same guy, same address, instead of our violin. He even opened the case and showed it to me. It was legit. A nice looking one, better than the one the guy had bought."

Ryan looks up again at Jake's stern face. He swallows. God, his stomach is beginning to really hurt now.

Terry smiles and taps one finger on the table in front of him. The simple action serves to focus the teen's attention.

"So you know a lot about violins, Ryan Jones? I guess you would have to, working in a music store."

Ryan leans back in his chair unconsciously imitating Terry Roaman's casual posture. He has this down now. This cop is all right. He doesn't know about the other one but he'll be out of here soon. No worries.

He wonders if he can rush through this and ask for a sandwich. Tea would be nice.

"Naw, not really. I mean we have charts and all, but I never really learned a lot about any of the instruments. The old guy was there for that. You know – Thompson. Old geezer. Runs the place. Knows shit all about violins."

Jake, who knows the entire exchange is being recorded and monitored, shifts his stance, recrosses his ankles and leans determinedly back against the wall. He steels himself not to glance at the far wall, which is really a two-way mirror. And at least two other agents sit there, one listening, one making notes and supposedly sending texts to Mycroft Holmes.

"So tell me, Ryan, what were you offered to switch the violins. And were you told why they had to be switched?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Nope. But the guy gave me 50 quid up front to make the switch. He stood there and watched while I did it, too. I made up the label and all while we talked. All I had to do then was see that the damn thing went out in that day's post. Dropped it off myself, actually. Then the real job started."

Terry smiles. And leans back again. "Real job?" he inquires.

Ryan nods. He glances from Roaman to Jake, who still leans against the wall, unmoving.

"Yeah. I was to follow this one bird. They gave me her picture and told me where she'd be two days after. And then –"

"They?" Terry says quietly. "You said, 'they,' Ryan. Was it one man or two?"

Ryan looks puzzled. Jesus, he wishes his stomach would stop hurting.

"Well that was just a figure of speech ya know? One guy came into the shop, offered me the 50 quid and watched me make the switch. Then he said if I left the shop right then, he'd make sure I made double that every day for a month or more."

"If you left the shop then," Terry muses quietly.

Terry's mobile tingles in his pocket. Casually, he withdraws it, glances down at the screen, then slips it back in his pocket.

Behind him, Jake's mobile tingles in his pocket. He makes a show of taking it out of his pocket, reads the screen, nods, then drops the phone back in the pocket of his trousers. Violins just became of interest to Mycroft Holmes. He regards the teen in front of him curiously.

Ryan glances from agent to agent. He frowns. Tries to remember the question.

Ryan nods. "Yeah. You know, quit. It was understood I was to quit. Just walk out, take the violin to the post, make sure that happened. Then they'd be in touch with the next job. An easy tail."

Terry says nothing but he nods slightly. And leans back in his chair.

_Over to you, Jake._

Jake shifts his stance. For the first time he speaks, his tone of voice cold and clipped to the extreme. "You just said, ' **They'd**  be in touch with the next job.'

He walks up to the table, places both hands flat on the surface and leans over to stare Ryan Jones in the eye.

"Who is 'they,' Mr. Jones? "

Ryan licks his lips nervously. He rubs his stomach with one hand. Terry notes the nails bitten to the quick. Nervous energy.

"Yeah, I said _they_. What I meant is, this one guy comes into the shop, tells me what he wants me to do, hands me 50 quid, I switch the violins, leave the shop, take the box to the post. And someone calls me that evening with the next job."

Jake's eyes narrow at the teen. Ryan's dark skin shines with sweat now. He glances from one man to the other.

"You keep rubbing your stomach," Terry observes.

"Peckish. Haven't eaten today, ya know?" Ryan says. He frowns. Things are not going right. A small hot pain grows in his mid-section.

Terry Roaman nods sympathetically. "I know what you mean. Man can't think right when his belly's empty."

Terry pushes his chair back and stands, stretches. "I'll go get you something to eat while you talk with my partner. Sandwich and crisps okay with you?"

Ryan nods and licks his lips again. "Yeah. Sounds good." He stares after Roaman as he leaves, then looks at the next man. The one with the brown curls who looms over him.

"Okay, Ryan Jones. Let's take this from the top, if you don't mind?"

Jake slides easily into Terry's chair and crosses his arms in front of him, leans toward the clearly nervous teen.

"A man comes into the shop. Right?"

Ryan nods. "Right."

"He offers you 50 quid if you are willing to switch violins, right? And he stands over you while you wrap the violin he brought with him and make out a shipping label, right?"

Ryan nods. "I usually slip one of ours in with the instrument, but he brought one with him."

"One what, Ryan?"

"Card. You know, business card. He had one with him. Had our shop's address printed on it on the back and all but it wasn't one of  _our_  cards. Ours are plain white. This one was – kind of yellow, I guess. He made sure I put it in the box with the violin."

"Okay. So you wrapped this substitute violin, slipped this business card in the box with it - a business card that had the shop's name and address on it, but not one of your business cards - wrapped the whole thing up and made out an address label, correct?"

Ryan nods again. He swallows once. "Yeah, that's right."

"Excellent, Jones. You're doing very well."

Ryan nods once, but his eyes never leave Jake's.

"Now Ryan, I have one question for you, okay?"

Ryan nods again. But doesn't speak. The burning sensation in his gut has him wincing. God! He needs some water. Something.

"What's the question?" he says weakly. His hand reaches out for the water glass.

"Well, Ryan Jones, how did this man know that you had just sold a violin to a customer? Was he in the shop when the transaction took place?"

Ryan's hand hesitates, one inch from the glass of water. He stares at the water longingly. What did this cop just ask him? If the guy was in the shop?

He frowns. "No. He wasn't in the shop when I sold the first violin."

Jakes nods. "Okay then. He was outside the shop, maybe standing on the kerb or what?"

Ryan's hand shakes slightly. He looks at the glass of water.

Jakes looks at it, too. He leans forward and gently pushes the glass toward the clearly rattled teenager.

How old is this Ryan Jones? Sixteen? Seventeen, max?

He shakes his head.

Ryan lifts the glass of water. He drinks. Sets the glass back down, in its precise spot. And groans.

"What's wrong?" Jakes looks at him, and he glances over Ryan's head toward the far wall. Directly at the far wall.

Ryan shakes his head. Beads of sweat begin to drip down the sides of his cheeks. "Nothing. Just stomach acting up."

Jake nods. "Well, you'll feel better with some food in you." He stares at the kid, who stares at the glass of water, then makes a decision. Jakes stands, then begins to walk around the room, his hands in his pockets.

"Okay, while my partner gets back with your food, let's go over this one more time."

He momentarily turns his back on Ryan Jones as he paces, turns.

There is a sudden commotion and the teen stands up suddenly, grabbing at his stomach.

"Shite!" He doubles over – and dry heaves on the table. Pink froth bubbles up at the corners of his mouth and he groans aloud.

Terry comes back in the room with a small tray, then drops it and rushes to the table. He hits the hidden alarm button under the far side.

At the same time, Jake Lynn is around the other side, and grabs Ryan Jones as he vomits his stomach contents again, groans, and falls to the floor.

"What in bloody hell!"

Terry stares at the far wall. "Get someone in here, stat!"

"On our way!" the disembodied voice says over the intercom.

On the floor, Jake Lynn wrenches Ryan's shirt away from his neck, tears it in the process of attempting to give the kid some air.

Ryan Jones stares up into Jake Lynn's dark gaze, convulses and more pink froth appears on his lips and the corner of his mouth. He gasps for air.

His ears begin to bleed.

"Fuck, fuck. Terry – get them in here now!"

The door opens and two more agents rush in, one of them with a med kit.

Too late.

Ryan struggles in Jake's grasp, and a thin trickle of blood pours from his nose.

The four agents, three males and one female, stand and stare at Ryan Jones, aged sixteen, as he convulses once, then begins to bleed from his nose, mouth, ears. And eyes.

Ryan convulses again. Chokes.

And dies.

Somewhere behind the far wall, the agents can hear an alarm blare. An acrid smell fills the room.

"Cyanide, most probably stomach capsule," the female says quietly. She tilts her head. "Flush this room with O2, Now!"

"Already done," says the voice. The sound of air scrubbers fills the room.

"Turn off that bloody alarm," the third agent says, his voice muffled as he holds his arm in front of his mouth . The blaring sound ceases immediately.

Jake Lynn looks up at Terry Roaman. He still holds Ryan Jones' dead body in his hands.

"Shite just got real," he says grimly.

 

**OooOooO**

John sets the ring box carefully down on the nearest table. He extends his hand to Mr. Thanos, who takes it in his.

A commotion down the hall has both men turning. Mrs. Thanos looks up, her duster in her hand. Her gaze meets her husband's.

John runs down the hall, his mobile automatically out of his pocket and in his hand.

From within their room, it sounds as if all Hell has broken loose.

He drops his mobile to the floor, pushes through the door. And stares.

"Sherlock - what the bloody hell!"

The detective stands over the land line, which he has just yanked from the wall connection and dashed to the floor. The small table was obviously first. John must have heard the crash as the table was upturned and plates of food hurled with force at the walls. Lamb, cheese, olives and apricot jam splatter across the pretty wall paper, the china plates lay broken on the floor. As John watches, Sherlock whirls and with one long arm sweeps the contents of the bedside table, lamp and all, onto the floor in one crashing heap.

"Sherlock!"

John rushes forward and grabs his forearm just as he lifts the small tea pot – which John somehow recognises as an antique – to dash it, too, to the ground. Sherlock stares into his soldier's dark blue eyes and something breaks in his expression.

He stops.  And stands there, unmoving, as John extricates his fingers from the pretty china pot, then carefully sets it back on the small table. 

Sherlock's breath comes in heaving gasps. He is wild-eyed, his chameleon eyes a shining grey. His curls are damp with sweat and his normally pale skin is mottled. John wonders if the man is having a coronary.

"Sherlock – Just. Stop!"

John reaches out to place one steadying hand against the other man's breastbone. He finds the beat. Wild. Erratic. He shakes his head. And holds onto Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock stares at the ex-soldier as if he doesn't quite recognise him, then suddenly crumples in on himself. He shudders once, then simply folds up in an ungainly heap and goes down to the hardwood floor.

John goes with him. He is dimly aware that Thanos and his wife stand behind them, surveying the wreckage of the pretty little room.

He holds onto the thin shoulders, which shake uncontrollably, and speaks to him as if to a child.

"It's okay. I'm right here. It's fine. It's going to be fine."

John lies.

The detective ends curled up in an impossibly small ball on the floor, arms wrapped around knees and head tucked to arms. He leans into his soldier's strong body.

" _John_ …" he groans. He doesn't say another word.

John enfolds him in his embrace.

Behind them, Mr. Thanos shushes his wife and they both retreat and shut the door behind them.

John pays them no mind. He speaks slowly, utters soft words of comfort, and wraps the other man up in a cocoon of strong arms and warm hands.

He bends his bright head toward the dark one.

Neither man moves.

**OooOooO**

** Chapter title taken from: " _Holding Out for A Hero_ "

Artist: Bonnie Tyler


	15. Chapter 15

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 15**

**"You're a right royal bastard, you know that?" - Part One**

**OooOooO**

"The road to truth is long, and lined the entire way with annoying  **bastards**."

Alexander Jablokov

 

Warnings:  Siblings sniping at each other.

 

**OooOooO**

**John enfolds him in his embrace.**

**Behind them, Mr. Thanos shushes his wife and they both retreat and shut the door behind them.**

**John pays them no mind. He speaks slowly, utters soft words of comfort, and wraps the other man up in a cocoon of strong arms and warm hands. He bends his bright head toward the dark one.**

**Neither man moves.**

**OooOooO**

Sherlock pulls back first. He slips out of John's grasp and glances around at their surroundings. He tilts his head back at John and looks at the ex-soldier. John looks steadily back – and clearly sees it when the pale eyes turn London fog grey. In one fluid motion, the detective is up and standing on his feet.

 _How in hell does he do that_? John wonders.

Sherlock looks around at the pretty little room, notes the destruction, looks down at John and perfunctorily holds out one hand. John takes it and the detective pulls him to his feet. Then he merely pivots and goes into the loo. John hears the click of the lock.

John stares at the closed door. He looks around, then bends to set the little round table upright. He picks up the clock, still miraculously in one piece but no longer displaying the time, and sets it back on the bedside table. The lamp is in several pieces and he leaves these. He also ignores the landline where it was pulled out of the wall, trailing its wires behind it.

He looks at the wardrobe, then shrugs and crosses over to retrieve their bags – Sherlock's leather carryon and suit bag and his own worn Army duffle. He has to dodge bits of broken plates and crockery and various food items that remain scattered around the room. John shakes his head, heartsick over the extra work for Mrs. Thanos.

He looks at the closed bathroom door again, then goes out to speak with Mr. Thanos, the bags in his hands. He leaves Sherlock's suit carrier lying across their bed.

**OooOooO**

John comes back into their room. He stands there for a moment, one hand on the doorknob, suddenly tired beyond belief. Sherlock stands at the window, the curtains pulled back in one elegant hand, and watches the rain.

At least, John assumes that's what he is doing. Hard to tell from the elegant back.

"Car's packed. Ready?"

No response.

Sherlock lets the curtain fall and plunges his hands into the pockets of his trousers, but does not turn.

John watches him as he talks. "I've offered to pay for the damage. Mr. Thanos is having none of it. I thought we'd send him a cheque anyway, once we get to Baker Street."

Sherlock's back straightens a bit more. When he speaks, his voice is curt, matter of fact. "Obvious waste of time, John. But do as you will."

John nods. "I figured as much. But we can try."

He scrubs a hand across his eyes and tries to blink the sudden weariness away. The rain makes his shoulder ache and earlier, he dug out a pain killer from the prescription bottle he keeps stashed in his duffle. Just the one pill, though, half his usual dose. He does not want Sherlock driving, and any more pain relief, which might make him drowsy, will have to wait until they get home.

 _Sweet Jesus, just let them get home._  " _I could sleep for a week,"_  John thinks. " _Possibly two."_

"Well, if you're ready."

Sherlock does not answer. John can see his hands as they tighten in the pockets of his designer slacks.

"Right. I'll be in the car."

He turns without another word, but leaves the door open behind him.

At the car, John stands in the rain, which has lessened somewhat, and rechecks the boot. He makes certain the green silk box with the precious rings is safely packed in the middle of his duffel, surrounded by socks and soft tee shirts, then slams the boot and hurriedly gets behind the wheel, still holding one of his older shirts. He towels his damp hair, then tosses it behind him.

Mrs. Thanos hurries down the steps, and John rolls down the window to greet her and again tries to get her to accept payment for the damage inflicted on their sleeping room. She shakes her head. And holds out a largish bag. "Take. Please." He finds her halting English charming and internally damns his own inadequacy in telling this kind woman what he thinks of her and her husband's unlooked for kindness.

Mrs. Thanos hands John a large bag with handles with the B&B's logo on it, stamped in deep blue flourishes. She stands in the rain, seemingly unaffected by it, and beams at him. He quickly takes it from her; the darn thing is heavy, groaning with food in various containers, and twists around to set it on the back floorboards. Great. They'll have food when they get home. He's pretty certain the fridge is empty – unless you count the items on the experiment shelf. Which he doesn't.

No last minute shopping trip. One less thing he can check off his list and for that, John is grateful. John smiles at Mrs. Thanos and tries one of his two halting words in Greek, to try to thank her for her thoughtfulness.

She smiles back, utterly delighted with John's feeble attempts at speaking her mother tongue. Somehow she manages to convey, with very little English, that it has been an absolute honor for her to cook a mountain of food for John and his crazy flatmate. An honor to have last minute, unpaying guests stay at their little Bed and Breakfast. Doubtless, having one of their rooms all but ruined by the mad man of London is yet another honor, one they will assuredly recount to family and friends. John wonders again at the Greek love for the stranger at their door, at their incredible hospitality, and thinks of the precious rings in the boot of their car. He has no words for the gesture and is still a bit stunned by it.

Mrs. Thanos pats his hand once – John can swear he sees her eyes fill – then she turns and goes back up the steps. He watches her as she disappears into the house.

Mr. Thanos and Sherlock come out a moment later and John looks on as Thanos attempts to say something to the detective. Sherlock listens for a moment, then nods quickly and comes down the steps toward the car. Mr. Thanos watches him for a minute, glances heavenward, whether at the clouds or consulting divine guidance, John cannot tell.

Sherlock slams the door after him and immediately brings out his mobile. John reverses out of the drive, slightly wincing at the pain in his shoulder. A minute later, they are back on the open road.

The rain seems to follow them.

Somehow, John's not surprised.

During the drive home, the ex-soldier glances repeatedly at Sherlock, whose attention is held by the small glowing screen of his mobile. His thumbs seemingly fly over the keys. He never looks over at John or attempts to engage him in conversation. Occasionally, John hears the chime sound. He wonders who Sherlock is texting.

Only once does John make the attempt to speak to him. He clears his throat.

"Er, Sherlock –"

"No, John."

Sherlock finishes with his mobile, tosses it on the dash, and crosses his arms in front of him. He stares out his window at the passing scenery. They are getting close to London and traffic has picked up considerably.

So has the rain.

John frowns. He lets a moment go by.

"No?"

"I believe I made myself clear, John. No. As in No, I do not wish to engage in a lengthy, although undoubtedly cathartic conversation about this morning's events. No, I do not wish to have the inevitable, patented 'John Watson' talk about feelings and emotions. No. I do not want –"

"You're a right royal bastard, you know that?"

John keeps his eyes straight and forward, suddenly so angry, he cannot breathe.

Sherlock's reply is uttered in the most snide tone of voice John has ever heard him use, his "Anderson is an idiot" voice.

"Of course, John. What part of the last two years did you not get?"

The two of them have nothing else to say to each other after that.

**OooOooO**

Sherlock's texts:

**Where is he, brother mine?**

**SH**

 

_**Since you are with the good doctor, I can only assume** _

_**By "he" that you speak of our 'missing' male parent, unless** _

_**You require information on one Ronald Adair's whereabouts.** _

_**Kindly Specify.** _

__

 

**I speak, dear brother, of the utter bastard who sired us.**

**Last known location – Brazil, if I am correct.**

**Current location?**

**SH**

 

_**At the risk of shattering my reputation of omniscience,** _

_**his current location is unknown.** _

_**My people are working on it. Why are you texting?** _

 

 

**You're a piss poor liar, Mycroft.**

**SH**

 

 

_**I assure you, dear brother, I am a most** _

_**Excellent liar. But in this instance, I speak truth.** _

_**May I inquire why this sudden interest?** _

 

 

**Inquire all you want.**

**I want to know where he is, Mycroft.**

**John is with me. So -**

**SH**

 

 

_**You and me both, brother.** _

_**However, I am inclined to believe, given our** _

_**Mother's announcement, that the mystery** _

_**Of his whereabouts will not remain a mystery for long.** _

**?**

**SH**

 

_**Surely, you jest Sherlock. Or has your** _

_**weekend of near wedded bliss** _ _**addled your wits?** _

_**The divorce was granted.** _

_**He initially refused it.** _

_**However, the dissolution of** _

_**The marriage is now final.** _

_**An interminable situation for one** _

_**of his temperament.** _

_**If you insist on this form of communication -** _

 

 

**And his temperament being?**

**SH**

 

 

_**You're the mad genius. Deduce it.** _

_**I repeat my initial question.** _

_**Why is this of interest to you?** _

_**Kindly call.** _

 

 

**You are incurably lazy!**

**You believe this development**

**Will bring him out of hiding?**

**SH**

 

 

_**Like a rat out of a hole, Sherlock** _

 

 

**Fine. When he surfaces, I want him.**

**And I want him kept away from John -**

**\- at all costs.**

**SH**

 

 

_**I'm uncertain why you consider John Watson** _

_**of interest to Nicholas Holmes.** _

_**Pray enlighten me.** _

 

 

**You're the omniscient genius.**

**Deduce it, dear brother.**

**John is to be kept safe.**

**SH**

 

 

_**This form of communication is tiresome.** _

_**It would behoove you both to** _

_**worry yourselves with Adair,** _

_**He is the last strong link in Moriarty's chain.** _

_**Leave Nicholas Holmes to me** _

_**And my people.** _

 

 

**Piss off, Mycroft.**

**SH**

 

 

_**Very well. If I cannot interest you** _

_**in cleaning up the mess you made, Sherlock.** _

_**I might point out that John was being followed –** _

_**as recently as two weeks back.** _

_**Does THIS fact interest you?** _

 

 

**Basingstoke.**

**You speak of his purchase of the violin.**

**SH**

 

 

_**I speak, dear brother, of the fact** _

_**That a currently unemployed physician** _

_**with the NHS, a former battle surgeon** _

_**and wounded veteran with a limited bank** _

_**balance, purchased an authentic Cremona violin** _

_**For his fiancée – from a seemingly** _

_**innocuous music store in an equally innocuous** _

_**town – for a ridiculously small amount of money.** _

 

 

**Have your people track Nicholas Holmes.**

**I'll worry about Adair.**

**And Cremona violins.**

**SH**

 

 

_**Lunacy, Sherlock** _

_**You cannot go after Adair alone.** _

_**You will require my assistance.** _

_**For the love of heaven, pick up your phone.** _

 

 

**You are altogether obvious, Mycroft**

**SH**

 

 

_**And you are blind to** _

_**The fact that you and John have** _

_**Become of interest to Moriarty's last** _

_**known Lieutenant.** _

 

 

**What the bloody hell are you on about?**

**SH**

 

 

_**Cremona violins, Sherlock,** _

_**Specifically, the one you now own** _

_**Came directly from our Grand Oncle's** _

_**Estate.** _

 

 

**A fact that I pointed out to You, brother.**

**Don't be obtuse, Mycroft.**

**It doesn't suit you.**

**SH**

 

**His mobile chimes softly.**

 

**{Incoming voice msg.}**

 

**Sherlock tiredly glances at John, then pushes the button**

**and holds his mobile to his ear.**

 

 _**You should know, Sherlock, that I sent two agents to Grand Oncle's state.** _ _**The violin in question had been donated t** _ _**o a local charitable concern, to help** _ _**raise funds for a new world-class o** _ _**pera house. The evening of the auction, t** _ _**he violin 'went missing." The serial number matches that of your gift from John. Fo** _ _**r some reason I have yet to discern, t** _ _**he instrument was stolen and brought to t** _ _**he UK. Where it was conveniently switched for the** _ _**instrument originally purchased on your** _ _**behalf by John. It was mailed to John a** _ _**nd he in turn, gave it to you.** _

**{End of voice msg. }**

 

Sherlock frowns, selects 'delete', then glances at his screen as the incoming msg alert beeps.

 

 

_**Interested now?** _

 

 

**Extremely.**

**SH**

 

_**How is John, by the way?** _

__

**John is fine. You know he's fine.**

**You just saw him.**

**SH**

 

 

_**Is he?** _

_**Are you aware of a conversation** _

_**Our own family physician had** _

_**with William Merit – St. Anne's?** _

_**Concerning possible ramifications of** _

_**his recent maltreatment on John's long-term** _

_**health?** _

 

 

**John is FINE.**

**What conversation?**

**And why wasn't I informed?**

**SH**

 

 

_**You were quite ill with influenza** _

_**At the time, Sherlock.** _

_**As was John.** _

 

 

**WHAT Conversation, Mycroft?**

**SH**

 

 

_**It was of a general nature.** _

_**However, apparently Thomas was** _

_**concerned enough to take it upon** _

_**himself to speak with Merit directly.** _

_**Consult the good doctors yourself, brother mine.** _

_**I tire of this conversation.** _

 

 

**And I of you.**

**Focus on Nicholas Holmes.**

**I'll take care of John.**

**SH**

 

 

_**Of course. And you're** _

_**Doing such an excellent job** _

_**So far, too.** _

_**I grow tired of this eternal tapping.** _

_**PICK. UP. YOUR. PHONE.** _

 

 

**Sod off, brother dear.**

**SH**

 

 

_**Gladly.** _

_**Just see to it that John keeps** _

_**His scheduled appointment** _

_**With Dr. Oakton on Wednesday.** _

 

 

**GOODBYE, MYCROFT**

**SH**

 

 

**OooOooO**

Sherlock tosses his mobile on the dash.

Less than thirty minutes later, they arrive back at Baker Street.

One hour after that, John goes missing ... for three hours and thirty-two minutes.

**OooOoo**


	16. Chapter 16

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 16**

" **You're a right royal bastard, you know that?" - Part Two**

 

**Wherein Mycroft suffers the beginnings of self-doubt; Sherlock experiences self-recrimination;** **Maggie Oakton asks all the right questions;** **and John walks away – from Sherlock**

**OooOooO**

 

" … I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you're here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know."  
― Henry Rollins

 

Here am I, sweating my brains out to introduce a really sensational incident into your dull and disreputable little police investigation, and you refuse to show a single spark of enthusiasm."  
― Dorothy L. Sayers,  _Whose Body?_

**OooOooO**

** TRIGGERS: John's session with Maggie Oakton. No real triggers, not in this chapter. If you are disturbed by psychological counseling sessions, please skip this bit. I would never fault you for it. **

**WARNINGS: Men. Being. Idiots. And would someone _please_  slap the piss out of Sherlock. (Seriously, I'll hold him down and you do the deed. Kindly avoid his nose and teeth.)**

**PROMISES: John's resurfacing memories of a certain incident. And the consequences thereof.**

**OooOooO**

**Sherlock tosses his mobile on the dash.**

**Less than thirty minutes later, they arrive back at Baker Street.**

**One hour after that, John goes missing – for three hours and thirty-two minutes.**

**OooOooO**

 

**Before my dear Readers comment on the fact that Ch. 15 left off on Monday afternoon...and Ch. 16 picks up on the following Wednesday, with John's scheduled session with Maggie, please read to the end first.  Most questions should be answered by then.  Thank you!  'sky'**

 

**WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON -**

"John, wonderful to see you again!"

"Hi, Maggie."

Maggie Oakton smiles at John and holds the door open as he enters her office. This is the first time John has seen her London office and the first time he has officially been "in therapy" since he quit Ella.

He would feel totally comfortable hugging this woman but neither of them do. Instead, they shake hands. Her handshake is warm, firm and friendly. He pauses inside, glances around, then grins. There must be some sort of psychologist decorators union somewhere. Maggie's office is spacious, sparingly yet beautifully decorated and could pass for Ella's office with its large picture windows and greenery, including a fountain just outside the windows. The seats are comfortable, the atmosphere one of peace and serenity and her walls are covered in bookshelves.

After a few more pleasantries, "How's Galen doing, Maggie?" and after Maggie inquires after Sherlock and John just raises an eyebrow without responding, John seats himself in one of the soft-as-butter chairs and Maggie pulls her chair from behind her desk and sits opposite John in the late afternoon sunshine. Maggie offers tea; John declines – "Maybe later." And the two sit in companionable silence for a moment.

John notes that Maggie does not write down what he says. Instead, she pushes the button on a small digital recorder and sets it on the table beside them.

"Voice activated," she says quietly.

He nods. "Okay. I remember … from the mansion."

She nods again and then sits back, her hands draped over her chair arms and her legs tucked to the side. She is completely at ease with the ex-soldier and John appreciates the fact he is speaking with a friend.

John watches the spray from the water fountain just outside the window for a moment or two while he gathers his thoughts.

Maggie watches John.

OooOooO 

 

**JW & MO – LONDON - Session One**

MO: John, what is the primary purpose of your visit today?

JW: (Laughs.) Maggie, it's changed somewhat. I guess I have more than one reason for being here today. A few, in fact. Originally, I wanted to discuss some - God, how do I even say this with a straight face?

MO: Just say it, John. And we'll go on from there.

JW: Fine. I've been having … dreams. Lucid dreams, strangely complicated, unusually disturbing. And they're becoming more frequent.

MO: John, are these dreams causing you to lose sleep? Affecting your daily life? Keeping you from your planned activities?

JW: Sleep? Yeah, on occasion. Mainly they … I've always had vivid dreams, Maggie. But these go above and beyond what you would consider as dreams. They're more like … scenarios.

MO: Scenarios? I'm not certain I –

JW: Maggie, it's like watching a movie. Start to finish. And they come with all the bells and whistles. Special Effects. Full color. Dolby. (Laughs nervously.)

MO: Well, you've certainly captured my interest. Did you write down any of these dream scenarios?

JW: Not necessary. I remember them all.

MO: John, how many of these dream – scenarios – are we talking about?

JW: Four. If you don't count the one I rejected. Four.

MO: The one you  _rejected_ , John?

JW:

MO: John?

JW: I – I refused to continue dreaming it. And woke myself.

MO:

JW: Maggie?

MO: You can  _do_  that, John?

JW: Yeah, Maggie, I can do that. Sometimes. That's not unusual, right? People can choose to wake up from bad dreams.

MO: Of course, John. People do it all the time. Some of my patients have trained themselves to wake up, to stop dreaming, at the onset of a bad experience. However, you used an interesting turn of phrase: 'I chose not to dream it.'

JW: It was – it would have been a particularly bad one. It's just been a while since I felt I had to control my sleep. Damn, the PTSD is bad enough.

MO: John, I'm so sorry to hear that. I thought that aspect was getting better for you and had been for some time.

JW: Yeah, me too. Maggie, I had an episode two days back.

MO: Is this the first one since the mansion or have there been others? And do you want to bring that into today's discussion, John?

JW: First one since. I didn't really intend discussing it. I'm not certain why it occurred. And there's something else I did want to bring up …

MO: Okay, John. Sounds like we have a lot on our plate. Why don't you talk, I'll listen, and we'll go from there. Figure out what we want to work on first? See how today goes, then plot out your follow-up appointments?

JW: Works for me.

MO: Then let's just sit and talk together until we find the thread you want to pursue, okay? You said these dream _scenarios_  were causing you to lose sleep, that they were complicated and disturbing. Were any one of them worse than the others? Should we begin with dream one and go on from there or –

JW: I don't know, Maggie. You tell me. I guess the worst one, so far, was the last one, the one before the dream I rejected.

MO: Okay, John. And what made this dream the worst?

JW: I - died.

MO: You dreamed that you died?

JW: No, Maggie. I don't mean I died in the dream. I mean I  _was_ dead when it began. And walking among the living, though I didn't realise that at the beginning.

MO: (Pause.) All right. Truth be told, John, although I'm certain that was terribly disturbing, what you just described is not  **that**  unusual. This type of dream is actually experienced by many people.

JW: Oh, good. Then there are others like me dreaming of their own future children – children who can  _see_ them in the dream, talk to them, interact with them, while they remain invisible to everyone else around them?

MO:

JW: Maggie?

MO: John. All right. Let's start at the beginning. Do you want to describe the dream – I'm sorry – the first scenario to me?

JW: Dream is fine. Well … as I said, that was my primary purpose today. But there are others. And I want to get to them, in order.

MO: I don't recommend we jump around too much, John. But something's changed, since you called me. Which is what you're trying to say. If I didn't know better, I'd say you'd experienced …John! The drug … are you still having episodes.

JW: No. No, no. That's over and done with. At least - I haven't had any symptoms, no shaking, cold sweats, muscular pain for a full week now. I've never gone this long before so I think it's – done.

MO: Well, that's a relief, then. What did Dr. Field and Dr. Merit say when you saw them last? Did William want to draw blood and – John? What's wrong?

JW:

MO: John?

JW: Maggie, I – haven't been to see either one of them. At least, Thomas was in the flat when Sherlock and I were both sick. I saw him then. But as for Dr. Merit – I …just didn't see the need.

MO: John. I think we need to stop here for a second and review what's happened to you and why it's so important you keep up with your follow-up visits.

JW: What's happened to me? Jesus, Maggie, I think I know damn well what's –

MO: It's fine. Deep breaths, John. And we both know doctors make the worst patients.

JW: Okay. Okay then, I guess I see your point.

MO: John, you have several excellent resources at your disposal. Dr. Merit needs to make certain you haven't experienced any cardiac changes. And when he's ascertained that your heart is healthy, you can make the decision if you wish to continue seeing him or not. But, John, you're a doctor. You know the importance of follow-up visits, particularly following such a horrendous strain on your health.

JW: Not a doctor anymore, Maggie, but yeah. I see what you mean. But I'm telling you, my heart is fine. Everything's – fine.

MO: John, you are a most excellent doctor. And I promise to do my bit if you'll do yours. Go see William. And remain in contact with Thomas Fields for your general health. Please, John.

JW: Maggie … Okay. I'll make the appointments.

MO: Good. That's settled then. Is there anything else you wanted to discuss before we examine the first of these dreams? Because, again, it's evident to me that something  _has_ changed from the last time we spoke.

JW: How did you – Jesus, you're good. I'd forgotten. Yeah. Something's changed. You might say that. Or better still, some  _one_.

MO: Is this about Sherlock, John?

JW: Got it in one, Maggie.

MO: John, surely you know I can't discuss –

JW: I'm not asking you to, Maggie. Besides anything Sherlock might have said to you had to have been said back in the Crandall mansion, correct?

MO: That's correct, John.

JW: And that's … fine. It's all fine. I signed the papers and gave you and Galen, both of you, permission to share those sessions with Sherlock, so that's all - No, this is something else. Entirely.

MO: Okay, then. But let me ask you, before we go any further – do those documents still stand? Are you authorizing me to speak to Sherlock about these new sessions? Only if he should ask, you understand.

JW: What? No. God, no! This is new. I – No, Maggie. Please. This remains between you and me. And Galen, if you feel the need.

MO: Just you and me then, John. I won't consult Dr. Dennison unless you request that I do so.

JW: Okay. Sherlock – Jesus, this is just so - Okay, Maggie. Here's the thing.

MO: Take your time John. You're my only patient this afternoon and I'm just so glad to see you. So take your time. What we cannot cover today, we will cover in subsequent visits.

JW: Fine. That's – Bloody hell. This is going to sound right stupid.

MO: I get that a lot, John. (Laughs out loud.)

JW: (Laughing.) Okay, then. Here it is. Sherlock – well, I think he's –

MO: He's what, John?

JW: I think he's finally grown up, Maggie.

MO: Not sure I follow you.

JW: Sherlock. He's … become an adult.

MO: An adult.

JW: Yeah. Our boy's all grown up. We're having actual, adult conversations. None of them particularly good. Most of them not fine. We're arguing a lot. When we even bother to speak to each other. In fact, the very way he speaks to me has changed. His general tone of voice, demeanor, the patented, Sherlock Holmes "I'm so much smarter than the universe" attitude … snide, condescending. You know, Maggie, the attitude he takes with the rest of the world, but usually not with me, at least not in our more private moments …  _that_ has all changed.

MO: Okayyy. I think I'm following you. According to you, Sherlock has – finally - become an adult. (Gentle laugh.) And?

JW: Yeah.  And ... it's scaring the shite out of me.

**OooOooO**

**FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER -**

After the lengthy text exchange with Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes sets his mobile down on the car seat next to him and stares out the window at the passing scenery. He deliberately left the estate much later than planned, as he was intent on speaking with Regina. But his mother retired to her room a short while after John's diatribe in the library and had not reappeared that morning. According to Deborah, Mrs. Holmes was 'indisposed.'

Mycroft decides that 'indisposed' means either his mother is incensed at John's accusations – or embarrassed by them. Both, perhaps. In any event, he did not see his mother again this day. His car and driver appear a short time later to return him to his towne house.

Mycroft thinks back over his words to Sherlock. He notes his brother must have still been in John's presence, hence the texting rather than a direct conversation. His sibling knows his feelings on texts, but in this case, he was grateful not to have to hear Sherlock's accusing tones.

Sherlock's elder brother is a man who prides himself on his knowledge, on what he knows to be true.

In this instance, Mycroft spends his travel time going over what he does  _not_ know … and finds it irksome in the extreme.

He does not know – yet - the location of Nicholas Holmes. As he assured Sherlock, his people 'are on it,' but so far, no clues as to their father's whereabouts have surfaced.

He does not know – yet – why a shadowy 'someone' elected to abscond with a valuable musical instrument, a family heirloom, from his Grand Oncle's estate, and then make certain that same instrument found its way into John Watson's hands - and thus to Sherlock's. That this is the work of Adair or someone in his immediate organization, Mycroft does not doubt. He notes that Sherlock did not inquire why he knew Adair was involved, but just accepted his brother's knowledge in this area. In fact, Mycroft has certain facts, items of little import on the surface, but when taken together, set Mycroft's internal bells ringing.

Simple Fact: Adair is known to frequent the casino located in the small town a scant few kilometers from the Holmes estate, and had been traced to that same casino just two nights prior to the cursed violin showed up in Basingstoke. Coincidental?

Obvious fact: The first initial and last name of one of Adair's former employees, a female known to be in Moriarty's original employ as his receptionist before that insane bastard's demise, showed up on the visitor register the same two days prior, during one of the weekly public tours of the estate.

That Adair's employee openly signed her initial and full last name to the register did not escape Mycroft's investigators.

Nor did the fact that according to the Holmes estate curator, this same female guest seemed inordinately interested in the music room and the instruments on display. An interest which extended to a rather lengthy observation of one violin in particular, the otherwise un-noteworthy violin now in Sherlock's hands.

The elder Holmes brother hates the term 'hunch' and never speculates without facts but is willing to acknowledge that he has developed an unerring instinct for certain anomalies when they involve his younger brother.

It is clear to Mycroft that Moriarty's successor is making no attempt to hide his interest in  _all_   _things Holmes_. In fact, he's rubbing their noses in it.

If this were Moriarty, Mycroft would suspect a game, although that madman's games tended to the bizarre and murderous.

But this is Adair.  _Ronald Adair._  Mycroft muses over the name as he watches the scenery fly by. On the surface, seemingly a successful international businessman. But when one digs a bit deeper … a businessman? Yes. One known to his competitors as competent, cool. Aloof. Exacting in his corporate dealings. With one known vice, a gambling addiction he can well afford to feed.

 _So, what are we left with,_  Mycroft muses. Adair has an interest in the Holmes family, in general, and in Sherlock, in particular. And he's not bothering to hide that interest. As if to say, "I can take you any time I want."  _But to what purpose?_

Mycroft sighs, opens his eyes and stares at the back of his driver's head. His lean fingers tap against the arm rest as he sums up what he does know.

It isn't bloody much.

One vintage violin removed from the Holmes estate days before it was to go to auction.

Two days later, an unknown individual, male, enters the music shop in Basingstoke a few hours after John Watson patronizes the exact same shop.

The individual pays the young man behind the counter to switch violins. And then promises him continuing work shadowing 'certain people.'

That same young man is now dead under horrendous circumstances, forever silenced on what he knew, or didn't know, about his mysterious employer. Which, Mycroft surmises, probably wasn't much. He's willing to bet that whoever hired Ryan Jones was simply tidying up. Again, another hallmark of Moriarty's organization and, of his successor, Ronald Adair.

Add to this the fact that Sherlock discovers a card in the shipping container, which blatantly announces the violin's provenance?

Why?

He frowns and his mind races. Then he takes a breath. And nods.

_Of course._

Because while a Sherlock Holmes might, in a fit of idleness, decide to trace the serial number and discover it came from the Holmes French estate, someone wanted to make bloody certain that all parties involved  _knew_ it came from their grand oncle's estate, hence the card.

Which brings him back, full circle, to the bloody instrument in question.

What damned purpose does the thing serve?

He pulls up the tiny photo from John's original email, although it's not the same violin, and studies it. Mycroft's eyes widen. He picks up his mobile.

"Yes?"

_Honestly, does the blasted woman ever take a break? Go shopping? Use the loo?_

"The violin that was once part of my grand oncle's estate, now in my brother's possession, does it have a name? Most instruments of that lineage would be given one."

Her voice sounds her hesitation. "Not certain sir. Is it important? "

"Please."

"Okay. Give me a few minutes on this one." She rings off.

He taps his fingers. And stares out at the rain. His mobile is still in his hand when she calls back.

"Mycroft? The name registered to that particular instrument is one word:  _Tenace._

"Tenace," Mycroft murmurs.

She waits a beat.

"Mycroft?"

"Not certain," he says. "Let me think a moment."

_Usually they bear the name of their creator, the family line or ..._

She knows not to interrupt and waits patiently while he thinks. He hears her nails as they click rapidly against her Blackberry keys.

He drums his own fingers on his phone case, as his fluid mind grapples with the facts.

"Ronald Adair. English heritage, correct?"

She places her Blackberry to the side and he hears her fingers tap over her computer keyboard.

"English parents, both sides."

"Grandparents?"

More tapping.

"English grandmother. Italian grandfather."

Mycroft takes a breath _. Can it be as simple as that?_

"One last thing, Anthea. Family motto, if there is one on file?"

More furious tapping. And a very long silence.

Her voice drops as she thinks aloud. "Difficult to find that one – hmm. No. Hold on. Got it. It's a rather common motto sir. A large cat, possibly a lion, rampant. Field of –"

"Never mind that. Just the motto, please."

A moment's silence.

"Basically, it translates to: I Will Subdue and Persevere."

_Of course._

"Thank you, my dear. You have been most informative."

She laughs gently and hangs up.

Mycroft tosses his mobile to the seat beside him.

_I will subdue and persevere._

Tenace.  _Tenacious._

The violin wasn't chosen for any particular reason, Mycroft muses, other than its name. There were several violins in the music room. Some of them with more illustrious lineage than this one, some with less.

But only one with a name that amused Adair.

It certainly fits in with Sherlock's two known interests: Violins. And puzzles.

But … Mycroft muses to himself, his lips pursed. There is no way on earth that Adair could have possibly known that John was going to enter that particular store, in that particular town, and buy a violin on that particular day. And why send it in the first place?

He thumbs the number on his mobile. She picks up immediately.

"Yes sir?"

"My dear, I have been remiss. Kindly make certain that the violin currently in my brother's possession is collected, as quickly as possible, and brought to the laboratory for examination."

"The violin? Of course, sir," Anthea responds. "Anything in particular we are looking for?"

Mycroft hesitates and watches as the gentle rain storm becomes a veritable torrent outside his car window. "They'll know when they find it."

"Very well. When do you anticipate your brother's arrival at Baker Street?"

"Uncertain. Sometime this afternoon, perhaps. I do want him to be in residence when the instrument is removed. So you'll have to wait to verify that they have arrived. I suspect there'll be quite the row."

"I'll take care of it, Sir."

He thumbs his mobile off and lays it on the seat next to him.

" _You interest me, Ronald Adair. And I will be certain to tell you so, before I or one of mine puts a bullet in your brain."_

**OooOooO**

**BAKER STREET -**

After their brief set-to in the car, both men complete the trip to London in silence. They pull up to the kerb at Baker Street - the rain has not abated - and for the first time, John wonders what the hell he is supposed to do with Mycroft's car. He can't just leave it sitting there. The next moment, he finds he doesn't really care. Presumably, their arrival will be duly noted on the bugs over the front door and one of Mycroft's people will come collect the thing. Either that, or someone will conveniently steal it. Problem solved.

He slips the keys under the driver's mat and pushes the button to open the boot. The rain is steadily coming down and both men hurriedly grab bags, Sherlock's suit carrier and the large bag of Greek food and enter Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson is obviously not home as the front door is locked. John stops for a few seconds and stares at Sherlock, who merely nods, unlocks the shining black door, then brushes by the ex-soldier, taking the steps two at a time.

John watches him go, waits for him to enter their flat, then shakes his head and follows Sherlock up the stairs.

In the flat, neither man acknowledges the other's presence. John is keenly aware that there is no bed in his old room and dear Lord, could he use a kip. But there are the two beds in their room – still angry at the detective, he mentally amends this to  _Sherlock's_ room. He shrugs and drops his duffle behind his chair, then goes into the small kitchen and begins to take various containers of food out of the heavy bag Mrs. Thanos prepared. He stores the food stuffs in their fridge, as far away from the experiment shelf as possible.

He crumples up the large bag, shoves it in the bin, then goes back into the living area to grab his duffle and take it to their room. He passes Sherlock who has settled into his chair, violin and bow in hand. Neither man looks at the other.

 _Fine,_  John thinks. He is still not speaking to Sherlock and doesn't give a damn if the other man ever speaks to him. Not on this day.

In their room, John glances around, then drops his bag on the bed and rummages through it. First he removes the soft tee shirt which he wrapped around the small emerald green box. He hesitates for a second, then sits on the edge of the spare bed and looks at the box. His calloused thumb rubs along the fraying silk edge. The way he feels at the moment, he does not want to open the box to look at the rings again. Some innate sense tells the ex-soldier that it would do the lovely gift a disservice to handle them while he's still incensed with a certain flatmate.

Instead, he glances around the room seeking a suitable hiding place, then sighs and wraps it up once more in the same shirt and returns the box to the duffle bag. He removes a few items of clothing and leaves their room to go shower.

From the living area, he can hear Sherlock as he plucks at violin strings. No discernible tune, just a distracted mish mash of tones. John shrugs and slams the loo door behind him. On second thought, he locks it.

Sherlock raises one eyebrow, glances toward the hallway and nods.  _Most excellent_. His mobile is immediately out of his pocket and in his hand. His first call is to Mycroft.

When his brother answers, Sherlock's eyes narrow. It is clear from the slight sounds that his brother is still en route to London, that he left the manor later than he originally intended. Presumably, he remained behind to speak with Mummy.

"Sherlock."

Without preamble, Sherlock speaks. Quickly. He can hear the shower running and intends to be through with his phone calls before John comes out.

"Mycroft. There was one error you made, an assumption on your part." He can hear the slight rustle as Mycroft shifts the phone from one hand to the next.

Heavy sigh. "I never assume."

Dead silence. Sherlock does not deign to reply to this utterly ridiculous statement.

Mycroft sighs, clearly aggrieved. "Pray enlighten me then."

"You said John was being followed."

Mycroft's tone is one of boredom. "Basingstoke."

Sherlock's eyes narrow as he whips his violin bow back and forth.

"Wrong, dear brother. It is impossible for someone to trail John without him being aware of the fact."

Mycroft continues to look out at the rain that sluices down his car window. "Certain of that, are you? As I recall, the man was rather ill at the time, still recovering from –"

"The man is a former soldier, an Army Captain trained in Special Ops for Gods sakes, and even on his worst day would discern a tail, either on foot or by vehicle. There had to have been a third way."

"A third way…" Mycroft's words taper off. "Ah, yes. If John was not being followed, then how did the unknown - let us indulge in melodrama and call him our mysterious stranger - know he had purchased a violin. How did he – "

"Or she," Sherlock interjects.

"I assure you, brother, it was a  _he_. There have been new developments."

Sherlock's grey eyes widen. Damn Mycroft's bloody  _intolerable_ connections. Still, they do come in useful upon occasion.

"Very well. Be quick."

He can still hear the shower running. He fidgets with the bow strings.

Mycroft fills him in on the clerk's arrest, subsequent interrogation and violent death.

Sherlock is silent for a moment. He no longer hears the taps.

"It is clear this is more than a charming little mystery involving a violin from our grand oncle's estate. It has now become –"

"An active murder investigation," Mycroft says.

"Fine. Let me know when you've got something I can use," Sherlock snaps. "And find that third way."

He hangs up and drops his mobile into his lap, has his bow back in his right hand and drags it across the strings as John comes out of the loo. The soldier pivots and goes right into their room, presumably to finish dressing.

Sherlock waits until he hears the click of the door lock, then picks up his mobile again.

At the same time, his mind grapples with the day John must have been followed. He desperately wants to discover what happened first _, before_  his brother does. And wonders if Mycroft has already discerned how it was done. Presumably. The bastard is usually neck and neck with him on things like this, a fact which Sherlock finds insufferable.

He glances through his contact list and selects another number.

" _You have reached Dr. William Merit. I am either with a patient or on the other line. Leave a message."_

"Dr. Merit. Sherlock Holmes. I need to speak with you, now, regarding John Watson. Kindly return my call at this number."

John still has not come out of their room.

Sherlock stands, lays the violin and bow on his seat and strides to the window. He brushes the curtain aside to stare out at the street. The sound of car tires struggling through the now torrential downpour reaches him through the closed window. His mobile tingles in his pocket.

"Sherlock? William Merit. What has happened with John – is he all right?

"You tell me, Doctor Merit. My brother indicated you have had a conversation about John's health with our family physician, Thomas Fields."

"Aw, yes. That particular conversation was of a rather general nature, Sherlock. However, as it pertains to  _John's_ health –"

"You will recall that I hold John's power of attorney, Doctor Merit, as he does mine. Anything involving his health can certainly be divulged to me, as well as to John and Fields. And John has signed all of the –"

"Yes, yes. That is true." The doctor's voice is thoughtful when he resumes. "What do you want to know, Sherlock?"

"Can John, can we, expect any lasting effects from his exposure to Frank's drug and his mistreatment at that bastard's hands?"

Merit hesitates. Sherlock can picture him at his desk, staring at the large diploma mounted and framed on the wall opposite him, next to the window. Sherlock recalls when he and Mycroft sat in the chairs opposite Merit – can it only be a number of weeks ago? - and listened to the cardiologist expound on John's possible imminent demise.

"Sherlock, I've been a doctor for over 22 years, most of that time spent as a cardiologist. At your behest, we ran every test possible on John Watson, paying particular attention to the cardio. I provided you and later, Thomas Fields, with the results of those tests. I found no overt cause for concern, nothing that rang any bells, beyond the obvious."

He hesitates. And Sherlock hears it.

"Beyond the obvious?" the detective prompts.

Merit frowns and looks at the window _. Will it ever stop raining?_

"Sherlock, no one medical professional, I do not care what his or her field of specialty happens to be, can speculate on long-term life expectancy, if that is what you are asking. As for any more immediate effects that John might experience –"

"That is what I am asking, Doctor," Sherlock continues to listen for John as he watches the rain wash his city clean. His heart beats too quickly. He deliberately takes a long breath, then another. And waits for Merit's response.

"Sherlock, I believe any competent doctor would say the same thing: not enough data. I can sit here all day long and expound on the horrendous abuse that John Watson has suffered, first as a child at the hands of his male parent, later from his tour of duty in the Middle East – and I have no idea how long that period of time was. And of course, his recent kidnapping, shooting and forced drug abuse. Not to mention his enforced captivity. John has never struck me as an individual who would take well to being restrained and incarcerated. But who would? I imagine it was hell on earth for him, particularly being a man of action, a soldier. My personal feelings aside, any traumatic experience, particularly the number that John has suffered, is bound to have lasting effects, not only on his short-term health, but his long-term prospects."

"You aren't being helpful, Doctor Merit," Sherlock practically snaps at the doctor. He lets the curtain fall but continues to stand and listen to the rain. He shuts his eyes.  _John._

"I know. And I'm sorry. There simply isn't enough information. John seems to be well, as I understand from Thomas Fields. Other than his and your recent bout of flu, he appears to be in good health, again according to Thomas. I won't say excellent health as I have not seen the man. He did not make his follow-up appointments with me. Of course, I can't vouchsafe for his mental or emotional well-being."

Sherlock frowns. "Follow-up appointments? How many?"

"Two, Sherlock, with me. We had John scheduled for his first follow-up the week after we discharged him into your custody. With all the events which occurred at that house you took him to, I understand why he missed that one. But he never called to reschedule. And he has now missed the second one, as well. I assumed that John had put himself under the care of Thomas Fields and felt he no longer needed to consult me."

Sherlock is silent for a moment. He stands at the window, mobile to ear, and runs back over the past week's events, day by day. His brows come together.

"John has not been in contact with your office at all, is what you are saying."

"Exactly. I told Thomas, when he called me during John's recent bout of influenza, that I assumed he was now John's sole physician. But I am always happy to take him back as a patient, whenever he decides to make that appointment. Frankly, I'd feel better about it, Sherlock. I respect and like John and am still frankly horrified at the abuse he suffered. I'd like to feel better in my own mind that he's all right. But John is a grown man. I can't force him to come in."

Sherlock's mind races and he struggles with an overwhelming feeling of self-recrimination _._

_I've been remiss. I should have insisted. Bloody hell, what was I thinking? Of course, he didn't keep those appointments. He's John Watson. And nothing, no pain, is ever bad enough for John Watson to acknowledge. The idiot has raised stoicism to a bloody art form. I let him tell me he was fine. IS he fine? He seems to be better every day, except for the exhaustion he's currently experiencing. Again, he'll see himself in hell before he admits it to me. Or to anyone else._

Out loud, all Sherlock says is _, "_ Doctor Merit, your people were gathering information on the other victims of that damned drug. Do you have any more data that you haven't provided to us?"

Merit frowns as he listens to the detective. "Sherlock, I provided you with copies of all the information we've been able to recover through my professional contacts. It's damnably difficult working with medical agencies on the continent. But I'll have my people gather another copy of everything we have, so far, and courier it to you, if that will help? To be honest, when John missed both appointments, I supposed we were to stop with any further investigation into any possible remaining victims, as the initial ones had all died, the last two by their own hands, I seem to remember. Was that a wrong assumption on my part? What other information do you require?"

Sherlock turns back to the window, mobile pressed to his ear, and sweeps the curtain back. The rain has nearly stopped, but Baker Street remains near flooded from the downpour. He watches as pedestrians struggle over and around widening puddles.

"Doctor Merit, I want those investigations into Frank's drug victims reopened, if possible. If you tell me you've exhausted your avenues, then if need be, I'll get my brother's people to request it. I want a copy of every single investigation, every report on every known test subject, sent to me immediately. I gave the copies we had in hand to Maggie Oakton for her and Dennison's use. How fast can I get those records sent over?"

Merit makes several notations on his pad, then taps his pen against the blotter.

"Sherlock, before we go through all of that, Thomas Fields has copies of every single record we have currently available. I can provide you with other copies, of course, but if he is close at hand, that might be faster." He hesitates for a second. "Sherlock, have you noticed anything about John's health, anything in his behavior that might indicate he is still experiencing symptoms? Has his health worsened?"

"No, Doctor Merit. John appears to feel fine, except for some slight tiredness. Given the last few weeks, I'm not surprised."

 _And he's fine,_  Sherlock tells himself.  _Dear God, we walked all over the estate, ran even. We slept out by the stream. He drove that damn motorcycle over the countryside. As for the sex … the man is fine. Better than fine. These are just precautions. Ones I should have insisted John take weeks back._

"But you feel something is going on," Merit prompts.

"You tell me, Doctor. IS John all right?"

"Impossible to tell unless you can get him back in here for those follow-up tests," Merit says quietly.

"All right, I'll call Thomas Fields for those copies. In the meantime, can you kindly get with your people and see if any other victims have surfaced, regardless of location? It might be helpful for John's health prospects. If you encounter roadblocks, tell me. I'll put Mycroft on it."

"Of course, Sherlock. Anything to help, although I would assume your brother could help more readily with that information. Give my regards to John." Merit hangs up.

The detective drops his mobile in his pocket. He hears a slight step behind him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock winces and turns to regard John Watson's storm-tossed gaze.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft hangs up from speaking with Sherlock, then mentally reviews their quick exchange. If his aggravating-to-the-extreme sibling is correct, and John was  _not_ tailed either on foot or by vehicle, then of course … he follows the train of thought through to its logical conclusion.

And nods.  _Of course, that is how it was done_.

His thoughts break off and he pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger in an attempt to ward off the sick headache that has been threatening all morning long, ever since John's bitter accusations hurled at both he and Mummy. He drops his hand to his lap.

He consciously parks Ronald Adair and violins to a recess of his mind and returns to his mental list of what he does not know about recent events concerning his family, particularly as it pertains to a former Army doctor. Something he thought a few moments earlier nudges him.

Sherlock's known two interests.

His initial assessment was lacking. His brother has three known interests: Violins; Puzzles - and Captain John Watson, ex-battle surgeon and soldier.

He does not know if he and Sherlock should read anything into Thomas Fields' conversation with William Merit as to John's long-term health prospects. The only thing he does know, and this from Anthea's diligence in keeping tabs on his brother-in-law, is that John has a scheduled appointment with Margaret Oakton two days hence, an appointment that was rescheduled due to John's recent illness. The same appointment that he insisted Sherlock make certain John attends.

He thinks back to the recorded sessions John had with both Oakton and Dennison at the Crandall estate – and contemplates his decision to delete those conversations unheard.

Mycroft drums his fingers on the armrest, and watches as the insistent rain leaves murky tracings on the car window. He lifts one long fingertip and traces the path of a particularly fat raindrop –  _surely it's_   _too soon in the year for raindrops this large?_  – down the shaded glass.

Something Sherlock texted earlier, a phrase his git of a brother would have uttered in an undoubtedly snide tone of voice had they been speaking with each other instead of texting, sticks in his mind. He picks up his mobile and thumbs back over their text exchange.

" _ **When he surfaces, I want him. And I want him kept away from John – at all costs."**_

Mycroft rereads the exchange, then closes the text and drops his mobile to the seat.

"… _kept away from John…at all costs."_

He leans back against the leather seat, fingers templed against his lips in unconscious mimicry of his younger brother, and mentally replays the past few days at the Holmes estate. His eidetic memory pulls up and discards each exchange between his brother and himself, then each exchange that he was privy to between Sherlock and their mother.

Nothing.

_Very well, then._

Mycroft shuts his eyes and pictures the scene in the library, he again sees the way the watery light filtered through the tall windows, how the dying sunlight and darkening clouds cast shadows over the other guest at the Holmes mansion this weekend, John Watson. And he replays his entire conversation with the good doctor.

A moment later, Mycroft starts, and sits up suddenly. "Bloody hell," he murmurs.

His agent meets his gaze in the rear view mirror. "Sir?"

"I need to change our destination once we arrive in London. Kindly take me to my brother's flat at Baker Street."

"Of course, Sir," his driver says. He taps a button on the steering wheel and she answers almost immediately.

"Anthea. Yes, agent?"

"Change of route. We are heading to Baker Street."

"Understood," her cool voice answers. They ring off from each other.

Mycroft ignores the tiny exchange and frowns as he considers his brother's words.

" _ **John is to be kept safe."**_

And Sherlock's reply when he questioned what possible interest Nicholas Holmes could have in John Watson.

" _ **You're the omniscient genius. Deduce it, dear brother."**_

_Deduce it, dear brother …_

Once more, Mycroft shuts his eyes and ears to the sights and sounds around him and replays his conversation two days earlier with John Watson, words uttered in the eerie pre-storm light in the Holmes' family library. His memory unerringly recalls his words centered around his brother's much-loved childhood nurse and erstwhile tutor, Holly Henderson, the young woman who died quite suddenly after only one year in the Holmes' family employ. Ms. Henderson. The young nurse Sherlock adored and for whom their father had little use.

" _ **She and Sherlock took to each other as, I believe the expression is, a duck to water."**_

Mycroft allows his mental picture to move forward.

" _ **He never saw her again. It was a damned shame, as Sherlock worshipped the ground she walked on."**_

Mycroft frowns. Is this what Sherlock meant by John will be kept safe at all costs?

Has his brother remembered certain facts and applied them as corollary to his relationship with John?

He recalls the few times he was home from Uni and present at any dealings Nicholas Holmes had with Ms. Henderson, his younger brother's nurse. Mycroft recalls certain moments, half-forgotten particulars and his own rather casual observation that their father seemed almost jealous of Sherlock's infatuation with and attentions toward his young female nurse.

His eyes fly open and he nearly groans aloud.

" _I've been a bloody fool,"_  he thinks with utter self-contempt.  _"Hell and damnation."_

Mycroft's steel blue eyes stare at the rain beyond his window.

_He's slipping. Missing facts. Underestimating circumstances._

And this is not to be borne.

He wonders if he should just tender his resignation and be done with it.

**OooOooO**

**WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON – MAGGIE OAKTON'S OFFICE**

MO: John, is there anything else you wish to bring up? And what do you feel most comfortable discussing here today? To be frank, now that you've told me you suffered through a stress episode earlier this week, I feel that should be what we pursue first. And of course, I'd like to examine the lucid dreams, to try to trace what may have happened, if anything, to cause you to have this type of dream.

JW: That's fine, Maggie. Wherever you think we should start – it's all fine. I'm pretty certain I know what might have triggered that episode. Or I should say who.

MO: Tell me it wasn't Sherlock, John. John?

JW: Not … directly. No. We had a rather eventful weekend at the Holmes mansion. Some of it was pleasant. Most of it was, I guess you'd call it stressful. And when we left, Sherlock was not himself.

MO: Okay.

JW: Without betraying his confidence, Maggie, or going into the details, Sherlock had what I recognized as a stress attack in the car on the way back. I had to reroute us temporarily to give him a chance to recover.

MO: And he's okay now?

JW: Don't know. But when I walked out on him, later that day, left him, I was thinking about our argument and –

MO: You and Sherlock?

JW: Yeah.

MO: Had an argument which caused you to leave? And later you experienced a stress episode? One that might have been brought about by -

JW: Yeah.

MO: Very well, John. And before I develop an entirely unearned reputation for an eidetic memory, this is the point I begin taking notes. Will this bother you?

JW: Of course not. Go ahead.

MO: Excellent. Let me check the recorder. There, that's fine. Okay, John. Please make certain you're comfortable before we proceed.

JW: I'm fine.

MO: Do you feel comfortable discussing what led up to the episode?

JW: I think so. Sure.

MO: Then why don't you just sit and talk to me, John? Talk. And I'll listen.

JW: Okay.

**OooOooO**

**FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER – BAKER STREET**

"Sherlock?"

_Busted._

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Honestly, the ex-soldier can move silently enough when he feels the need. Sherlock lowers his mobile to his side and regards his flatmate.

To say the man appears pissed is putting it mildly.

"Who in hell were you just talking to?"

Sherlock pulls air into his lungs and looks straight into John's dark eyes.

"William Merit, John. About the probable effects of Frank's drug on your long-term health."

"My long-term – my health is  _fine,_  Sherlock. I feel fine. No episodes in days now."

"If you say so, John," Sherlock says steadily. He drops his mobile onto the desktop beside the window and plunges his hands in the pockets of his trousers.

Both men stare at each other.

"Apparently, you don't feel the same way, Sherlock, or you wouldn't have felt the need to go behind my back and consult  _my_  former cardiologist about  _my_  health."

"John? Might I remind you of two missed follow-up appointments?"

"Thomas Fields is now my doctor, Sherlock. And I'd appreciate it if you consult me before you go having conversations with Merit about –"

The doctor breaks off and looks at the detective's face.

"Okay. Let's have it. What's really going on here, Sherlock?"

"Nothing is going on, John. I would feel better if you would see Merit, however, for those tests. I just want to be certain you're all right."

John feels momentarily at sea. His hands ball into fists by his sides. He considers the other man's seemingly calm demeanor but - when the thought – the dread thought – occurs, his blue eyes narrow.

He tries to take another deep breath but his chest is tight. He can't pull in enough oxygen.

"What exactly are your concerns, Sherlock? And what did Merit say? I told you I feel just fine. All this talk is –" he waves a hand. "just wasting time. Unless, bloody hell ! Is there something you know that I don't? For gods' sakes!"

"What do you want me to say, John?"

John speaks through the roaring in his head, the pounding blood in his veins. The  _anger._

"What I want, Sherlock, is the truth. The pure, unvarnished truth. Not what passes for the truth in that strange head of yours. Not what you want to be true. Just give me the facts, Sherlock. Don't sugarcoat it. Don't make it into something you can live with. Just tell me the fucking truth. Am I dying? Is this – shite – killing me?"

Sherlock's hands clench in his pockets. He takes a breath, deliberately lets his hands go loose and hang by his side.

And stares into the eyes that he thought he would wake up to for the rest of his life.

"I cannot answer, John. Not enough data."

Both men stare at each other.

All his life John has heard the phrase "time stood still."

He now experiences it firsthand.

Time stops. He can hear his heart beat in his chest. He can hear the sound of traffic from the street below. He thinks, if he concentrates, he can hear Sherlock's heart beating, although they stand a few feet away from each other.

He hears his own intake of breath as a roaring sound in both ears. He takes a breath.

Time starts again.

"Not enough data," he asks hoarsely. "How do you – Jesus, Sherlock, why are we even having this conversation? And why have you been speaking to my doctors behind my back? Who has been – Merit? Fields? All of them – has every doctor been talking to you and not one of them bothered to talk to me?  _Sherlock?"_

Sherlock's eyes are frost. Sheer frost shot through with the palest blue John has ever seen. This is Sherlock's killing face. His killing eyes.

He says nothing but continues to stare at John, as if he's memorizing his face. As if he believes that any minute John Watson will vaporize, just blink out of existence. He cannot breathe. He cannot take a fucking breath.

The silence stretches out. John's heart rate doubles and overwhelming anger fueled by utter frustration floods his mind and psyche.

"We're done here. This is - We're over," he snaps furiously.

And he pivots on one heel, and stalks away from Sherlock.

"John!"

He doesn't bother shouting back at Sherlock. He's out the flat and down the near flooded street before he can catch his breath or really think about where he's even going. At least the rain has finally stopped.

" _This is not happening. This marriage, wedding, whatever, is not happening. Not if I can't trust him to even talk to me. If I'm not one half of this partnership – then we've got nothing."_

He's several blocks away, walking quickly toward no particular destination, when he's aware the black car follows.

 _Great. Just – fucking great. All he needs right now._  John doesn't even turn. He ducks down a convenient alleyway, deliberately avoiding whoever Mycroft has sent to kidnap him this time.

The next street over, John pauses on a street corner, well back from the road, plunges his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket and watches as vehicles maneuver the near-flooded streets. He watches as the cars send arcs of rainwater toward unwary pedestrians. A nearby street vendor decides the rain is now through and uncovers his wealth of flowers, yanking a tarp off the cart. The colorful blooms are the only counterpart to the grey streets, steel-grey skies and John's increasingly grey mood.

The sweet smell reaches John on the breeze. And nudges his memory. He frowns _. What is it? Why does this entire scene seem familiar to him?_

Any bloody minute, that damned black car will be on him. Any damn minute.

Pity he doesn't have his gun.

_I would take a great deal of pleasure in shooting out the fucking tires right now. Spending the night in a holding cell would be preferable to going back to the flat and that stupid – bloody_ _**stupid** _ _– arse I live with._

John yanks his mobile out of his pocket, considers the contact list, and thumbs a little-used number. She answers quickly, as if she was waiting for his call. Which is impossible, of course. They haven't had much contact over the past several months.

Make that an entire year. He feels guilty about that. Just a bit.

"John?"

"Yup, it's me. The right royal bastard I live with is being – "

"A royal arse?" she laughs. He shuts his eyes momentarily. He'd forgotten how welcome, how warm her laugh is.

"Yeah, something like that. Mind if I come over and kip a while?"

"Don't be an idiot. Get your stupid self over here,  **now**  John Watson."

He grins. "Okay, on my way."

She gives him the address, a new one and not that far away. He drops his mobile in his pocket and glances up the street. Lady luck is with him, at least for these few moments. In answer to his upraised hand, an available cab pulls over, tires sluicing through an incredible puddle, and John clambers in the passenger seat. He gives the driver the address.

"Right. This rain is sumthin' innit it?"

"Yeah. It's something," he replies.

John glances out the window, and sees, several cars back, what looks like the front fender of the same black car he noted earlier.

_Jeesus, can't a man have a little argument with his flat mate? Take a bloody walk to clear his head without being fucking kidnapped off the streets of London, for cripes sakes!?_

" _Damn all Holmes to hades. And damn Mycroft Holmes most of all."_

The cabbie glances in his rearview mirror. "Sorry?"

John frowns. He wasn't aware he'd spoken out loud.

"Nothing," he says. "Sorry. It's – nothing."

He glances at his reflection in the passenger window and runs a hand through his pale hair. He's grateful for the fact that despite the rain-flooded streets, they are making good time. No traffic jams, yet, to stop the cab in its tracks. Maybe, if the gods smile on him, the stupid arse black car behind him will lose the tail.

_Not bloody likely. But a man can always hope, right?_

Something about the scene, the darkened London streets, the faint smell of flowers from the street vendor, the recent rain and most particularly, the knowledge the black car is several lengths behind him, presumably following, pokes at him. His eyes narrow.

Night. Dark. But cold out, not warm like this. Still … He remembers walking away from the flat, from Sherlock. He wasn't angry, no words had been exchanged, right? He was just … keeping a date? For tea?

_What was it? Why does this seem so familiar?_

But that was night and this is day, although you wouldn't know it from the battleship grey storm clouds that threaten to open up again, any stinking minute.

John's mind grapples with the flood of images, the smell of verbena, the dark skies, the black car following behind. The very real knowledge he does not have his gun tucked into his waistband.

Too much sensory input.

 _Too much_  …his head starts to buzz.

"Nearly there, mate," the cabbie says.

John's eyes widen as the familiar buzzing sound threatens. No. Just – No. Please.  _Please._

He automatically yanks his wallet from his pocket, begins to count out bills. At the same time, he practices the deep breathing exercises she taught him. They seem to slow the buzzing a bit.

_Just a bit longer. Please let him not do this here, in this bloody cab._

When they pull up to the kerb, she's actually waiting for him, her form silhouetted by the open flat door and the yellow light behind. He sees a faint nimbus around her dark auburn hair.

John is aware that she moves toward him as he hands over bills to the cabbie, "Thanks, mate," then fumbles with the door handle … fumbles with the door… the door …

The door opens and her warm brown eyes, crinkled in welcome, now widen in sudden alarm as the ex-soldier all but tumbles out of the bloody cab and nearly collapses at her feet onto the soaked pavement.

"John!"

She grabs him around the shoulders, even as the cabbie, alarmed now, parks his cab and rushes around to help her with the ex-soldier.

"Come on, let's get him inside," she says desperately.

"Okay, miss, no problem. Didn't know he was in a bad way."

Together they manage to get John inside the open door and manhandle him into a sitting position on her sofa. The cabbie, a decent man, looks at her, hesitating to leave if she should need assistance or need him to call 999.

She shakes her head.

"We'll be fine now. Thanks," she says.

"If you say so, Miss." He lets himself out, shutting the front door behind him.

The buzzing is louder now and John groans, his head in his hands. He lifts his head and looks around the unfamiliar flat, the light woods, bright colors, flowers, pale oriental carpeting, paler walls. The smell of hot tea wafts from the pretty teapot on the coffee table. Earl Grey. And over those pictures, over the sights and sounds and smells, over her comforting voice and concerned tones, he hears another, menacing voice, mocking. Lilting. Sing song.

Irish.

"Jesus Christ," John mutters. He slips off the sofa and curls up into a small ball, his palms pressed against his eyes.

"John!"

Clara bends to wrap her arms around his shaking form.

**OooOooO**

MO: John? Do you need to stop? We don't have to have to do this now if you're not up to it.

JW: No. No, Maggie, it's all right. I want to. I think… I need to discuss this incident. God knows, Sherlock's asked me about it a few times. I just wasn't – ready yet.

MO: Okay, deep breaths, John. What incident? The stress attack you just described or what brought it on?

JW: Maggie? Have I ever… in those sessions in the mansion, the ones between you and me and Galen, did I ever bring up … did we ever discuss or start to discuss – what happened that night?

MO: What happened on  _what_  night, John?

JW:  _That_  night … and what happened at the Pool?

**OooOooO**

**Written under the influence of:**

" **A Thousand Years" - Artist: Christina Perri.**

**And "After the Storm" – Artists: Mumford & Sons**

**OooOooO**

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: ANGELS has been on hiatus, off and on, since mid-February 2013, due to the death of my beloved husband and life companion, Jack Haley. During this time, I have received many msgs of support and love from my readers. I want to thank all of you for that, truly. I have treasured each word of every message. Thank you for your incredible kindness.**

**AN # 2:  The above note was written last year - 2013.  But it still stands this year, as of October 2014.  I am behind in posting updates to this story.  But be assured, dear persons who still follow me, the story is completely mapped out.  In fact, large portions of Book 2 of ANGELS are "in the can," so to speak.  My wonderful beta, Sherlock'sScarf, can attest to that.  I would never abandon this story unfinished.**

**Thank you again for your support of my trilogy and be assured of my continued interest in bringing it to fruition.**

**'** **sky'**


	17. Chapter 17

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Book One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 17**

" **The Doctor, the Detective, and the Irishman" - Part One**

**OooOooO**

**I will go down with this ship.**

**And I won't put my hands up and surrender.**

**There will be no white flag above my door.**

**I'm in love - and always will be. ***

**OooOooO**

**MEMENTO MORI:** **This trilogy dedicated to my beloved husband, father to our children and dearest friend and companion, Jack Allen Haley.**

_**You always made me laugh !** _

**Until we meet again, Sweetie …**

**OooOooO**

"You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don't need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless inspiration for the brave of heart. It's you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection.

\- Henry Rollins

 

**OooOooO**

**CHARACTERS: John Watson, Maggie Oakton, (OC), Harriet Watson, Clara Steele.**

**WARNINGS - POSSIBLE TRIGGERS:**  Anger, Confusion, PTSD Symptoms, Flashbacks.

**OooOooO**

 

**JW: Maggie? Have I ever… in those sessions in the mansion, the ones between you and me and Galen, did I ever bring up … did we ever discuss or start to discuss – what happened that night?**

**MO: What happened on** _**what** _ **night, John?**

**JW:** _**That** _ **night … and what happened at the Pool?**

 

**OooOooO**

Maggie looks at John, at his hands as they rest on his chair armrest and how his strong fingers dig slightly into the soft leather. She stands, goes to her desk and picks up three USB sticks that lie there. She crosses back in front of John, and bends to place the three small memory devices on the table beside them.

Each memory stick has a tiny white label on it, with the sessions printed in black letters. His sessions with Galen. His sessions with Maggie. And the sessions with both of them.

Maggie sits down, leans over and taps one stick with a manicured fingernail.

"These are your sessions from the mansion, John."

John hesitates, then picks up one of the sticks. He turns it over and over in his hand. At the same time, Maggie clicks on the tiny digital voice recorder by her side and settles back.

JW: Maggie, I – I don't remember these, well, not  _all_  of them.

MO: That's perfectly understandable, John. I wouldn't expect you to, not under the circumstances.

JW: You told me that Sherlock listened to these, right?

MO: John, we provided him a copy of each session, per your request. Four of them, yes, I can personally vouch for those. He sat in the kitchen at the mansion when you were resting and used my laptop to listen to them. He later told Galen that he listened to all your sessions.

JW: (Deep breath.) Okay. That's …okay then.

MO: Is there something about those sessions, John, or one in particular, that's bothering you?

JW: Maggie … something nearly happened. No. That's not the right way to put it. Something did happen - to us. But … I can't remember if I ever discussed the pool incident.

Maggie frowns slightly, then leans over and turns off the digital voice recorder. She looks at John. Her voice is low, comforting.

"To my knowledge, you never brought up what you refer to as 'the pool incident,' John."

John nods. Maggie watches. And sees the haunted shadows in his dark blue eyes.

"It took place over a year ago, Maggie," he says quietly. "I – it was in the papers, Sherlock was pretty well known by that time, of course, so-o, naturally, telly, the internet."

The psychologist regards him thoughtfully.

"I was still in the States at that time, John. In fact, the only reason Mycroft got me on your case so quickly is because I'd just attended a conference in Switzerland and he was able to catch up with me before I caught my return flight home."

"Switzerland," John muses. "I swear to God, Maggie Oakton, if that country's name pops up again… ."

She tilts her head. "Yes, of course. The day Sherlock left the mansion, without telling anyone where he was going."

He nods, but does not speak.

She makes a small notation on her pad, then looks back up.

"Understood. Okay. We won't bring up unfortunate geography again. And something about this 'pool incident' sparked the stress attack you experienced two days ago?"

John looks at her steadily. "I think it's the other way round. Ella told me once that my attacks can be brought on by a combination of circumstances, recurring memories, particularly bad ones, and of course, nightmares, ill health, even smells, sight and sound, that sort of thing. In this case, I think it was a combination of sounds, smells and sheer exhaustion. Not to mention anger. I'd just walked away from Sherlock. We'd had a … Wait."

John's dark blue eyes widen.

"Just. Maggie. You said you were returning from a conference? And Mycroft called you to see if you could help me and you were able to see me so quickly, because you were in the vicinity?"

She nods. "That's right, John. And I rather owed him a favor at the time, so…" her soft voice tapers off. She smiles softly, anticipating his question.

John's voice slows down. He taps his fingers against his lips. Then he stares at her incredulously.

"Maggie Oakton, are you telling me that you opened this office, here in London, just to … No. Nope, you aren't telling me that. I don't believe it. Because – you and Galen. You wanted to be close to Galen and –"

"John. I opened this office in order to be close enough to treat you, when asked, although Galen did come into it, in a manner of speaking."

There is silence between them for a moment.

John glances around him at the tasteful surroundings, seemingly more masculine than feminine, the dark woods, the highly polished desk and expensive chairs. Only the rugs seem paler, of softer hues than their surroundings. Finally, he stands and walks to the far wall, covered in floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the shelves themselves filled with multitudes of books.

He pulls one out at random, flicks to the inside cover, then returns it and immediately pulls out another. Maggie watches him expectantly. And waits for the ex-soldier to add it all up.

John looks at the frontispiece of the book in his hand, raises one pale eyebrow, then flips the book shut and returns it to the shelf. He stands back, his hands on his lean hips, and stares at the hundreds of volumes, then turns slowly and regards the American psychologist.

The late afternoon sun slants through her windows and sets his bright hair aflame.

"This is Galen's office, isn't it? Or was?"

She stands up, the better to see him, her green eyes now clearly amused. "Yes, John. It was Galen's London office. Mine now, of course, although we share the library space."

John shakes his head and then comes to stand by his chair.

"I think I can use that tea now, Maggie."

"Of course, John. You'll excuse me if I get it myself. Bethany has the afternoon off. I wanted us to have absolute privacy for our session today. I've also forwarded the phones."

She brushes by John on her way out the door. "Be just a minute."

John sits, leans back and stares around. He taps his fingers on his arm rest. His mind grapples with the knowledge he has just learned. He rubs a calloused thumb over and over the memory stick.

_James Moriarty. The Pool. Sherlock._

He shuts his eyes. Behind closed eyelids, he sees overhead fluorescents dancing off tiny ripples of water, ripples which send small sprays of chlorinated water into the cool air.

_Twice. Sherlock has asked me about that night twice now. Each time, I've put him off…told him I just wasn't ready. But now…what can it hurt, after all? That Irish bastard is dead. Sherlock can't kill him a second time. Unfortunately. And about that …_

John is still thinking when Maggie nudges the door open with her hip, a loaded tea tray in her hands. John hurriedly rises to help her.

They settle back with their tea in companionable silence. Then Maggie sets her cup carefully in her saucer and answers John's unspoken questions.

"Galen had just relinquished the lease and was preparing to move to the continent, when everything … happened. And Mycroft being Mycroft, he asked that I be available for regular sessions for you from here on out. Until you feel you no longer need them, of course. When Galen and I became engaged, it just made sense for me to take over the lease. It's centrally located, convenient to all the lines. And to home. So … my office now."

She picks up her tea cup again and leans back. "Although Dr. Dennison has full visiting rights whenever he wants," she says with a small laugh. "And I can't complain. In addition to my patients from America, whom I see via Skype, I've had several new patients since we've opened our doors, some of them recommended to me by –"

"Mycroft, of course," John says. He frowns, sets his cup down next to him and resumes tapping his fingers on his arm rest.

"Yes, Mycroft. Although some of those…" her voice trails off.

"You don't have to tell me, let me guess," John says tiredly. "You are also seeing his people."

"John, you know that I cannot divulge any of that information."

"It doesn't matter," he says. "It's obvious. And, it makes sense."

The two of them drink their tea. John stares beyond Maggie at the bookshelves across the room.

"Dear God in heaven," he muses. "You are saying that the only reason you relocated your entire practice here to the UK is because of Mycroft's insistence –"

"Request, John."

"Fine. Have it your way. Mycroft's  _request_  that you be available to see me?"

She nods. "That. And of course, there's Galen now."

"Of course." John glances at the sparkling stone on the third finger of her left hand, then leans back in his chair and wonders if he should be incensed at Mycroft's unasked for interference in his life – or just resigned. In the end, he chooses resigned.

"I don't know what to say, Maggie."

She bends to retrieve her notepad and pen. "There's no need for you to say anything, John. Your case has been illuminating, to say the very least. I have had zero regrets relocating my practice. I find it interesting living here. And, as you say, now I have Galen in my life. Although there is one set of circumstances I deeply regret. And always shall."

She raises her head from her notes and looks at him.

"You, John. Or rather the horrendous circumstances that brought you to my door. Or vice versa. Brought me to your hospital room. I hate everything that has been done to you. And what you had to endure in the military before you came back here to England. I'm here to help you through all of this."

She leans forward and extends one warm hand to John. He does not hesitate to take it in his.

"That is, if you'll allow me to continue trying to help, John."

He holds her hand in his for a moment, and then clears his throat. "Maggie, I –"

"John, please. Everything is paid for, never any worries on that score. And besides, you might say I took you off the clock some time back."

He tilts his bright head at her.

Maggie Oakton smiles gently. "You saved our lives, John. Galen's, mine, all of us. I couldn't possibly charge you after that. Or charge Mycroft, for that matter. As long as you need me, as long as it takes, I'm here for you. And I speak for both of us now, Galen as well. He wanted me to assure you of that."

John looks into her intense eyes. And suddenly shakes his head. "I don't know what to say. I just didn't realise ... I mean, I never thought that Mycroft would – "

"Would what, John? Attempt to help the man who saved his brother?" Maggie lets go of John's hand and sits back in her chair. "And I mean 'saved' in more ways than one, John."

She taps her pen on her notepad meaningfully.

"I'm not certain what _history_  there is between you and Mycroft, John Watson. And I've certainly never asked. And never will. Mycroft wouldn't answer, anyway, not if it didn't suit his purposes."

"You've got that right," John mutters. He is still leaning forward in his chair, his hands clasped in front of him.

"Well, he  _is_  Mycroft, John. But all that is beside the case. Whatever feelings there may be, whatever has gone on between the three of you, know this. Mycroft Holmes is determined that you will not have any lasting psychological effects from this, John. Of course, no one can guarantee that for anyone, particularly in your instance. And no one can speak for your emotional involvement."

John lifts his head from contemplation of Maggie's carpet. His dark eyes are clouded.

Maggie nods. "But I'm going to do my damnedest, John. If you'll meet me halfway."

There is a silence between them for a moment.

John chooses his words with care. "Maggie, I … hell, I'm not comfortable talking about myself. Never have been."

"I imagine your previous therapist found that exceedingly helpful," the American says dryly.

John laughs.

He tries to settle in the chair that probably cost his former month's salary. He attempts a bit of levity.

"Okay then, Dr. Margaret Oakton. What do you want to know first?"

She taps her notepad and regards him thoughtfully. "First, I need to know … you said you walked away from Sherlock."

He nods.

Maggie leans forward. "Did you go back to him, John?"

He grins, shamefaced. "Yeah. I mean … I was gone for a couple of hours, three, tops. Yeah, I went back."

"And?"

John wets his lips. She notes his posture, hunched forward, hands clasped, eyes on the carpet under his boots.

"John?"

He glances up at the concern in her voice.

"It's okay, Maggie. Really. We're – fine."

Maggie Oakton smiles. "Of course. You're so fine, you have done nothing but display symptoms of anxiety since you've sat down."

She lays her notebook down on the table and sets her pen beside it. Then leans forward, her own hands clasped.

"John? I said earlier that it was okay if we covered more ground then I initially intended, since you have so much on your mind at the moment. But by necessity, this is going to be a rather lengthy session and I feel we need to slow down and establish a couple of guidelines before you and I go any farther."

He nods. "Okay."

"I know that the PTSD has not eased up as much as we both might wish. And that it seems to have taken a rather disturbing turn. Twice now, you have apparently experienced what you call episodes and twice they have not entailed your experiences in the military. The first, in the mansion, when you were trying to rescue Sherlock from the lab –"

John wets his lips. "Yeah. That – that was unexpected."

Her eyes remain steadily fixed on the ex-soldier. "You never did tell me exactly what you experienced during that episode, John."

He shrugs. "I went back to – it was an incident that occurred between me and Sherlock. And to be honest, it was a good thing. It's just…I have no idea why I relived that occurrence at that particular time."  _And I have no intention of telling you, Margaret Oakton, of the first time Sherlock and I were …together._

Maggie nods. "Okay. You don't need to delve into that, if you don't want to. But you said that this attack you had two days ago, the day you walked out on Sherlock, also had nothing to do with your military experience. You brought up what you refer to as the 'pool incident.' "

John frowns slightly. "What are you saying, Maggie?"

Her voice is calm, but her brilliant green eyes are as direct as laser beams. He is reminded of Sherlock's keen gaze. Piercing. Often unsettling.

"I am saying, John, that if it's important to you to tell me what occurred at the pool, then I believe we first need to put that particular episode in its proper context. Can you recount exactly what happened to you, what you were thinking and feeling, when you walked away from Sher – away from Baker Street, Monday, right? I'm not asking you to recall the sounds, smells and sights you experienced along the way. You hardly need to experience another episode."

She tilts her dark head as she waits for his answer, and not for the first time, John notes how genuinely attractive this woman is. Usually, her physical appearance is overshadowed by her professional persona and her frank manner, which John has noted before in his American friends. He glances at her with renewed interest. And wonders what Sherlock would be able to deduce about Dr. Margaret Oakton.

She smiles, as if she reads his thoughts. "John, can you do that for me? Just a synopsis, if you wish, but can you tell me where you ended up that day, how long you were away from Sherlock, how long you were  _away_  from yourself ? What you experienced and how you made your way back home? And if you feel you can do this without evoking bad associations, can we then move forward through your thoughts and emotions so we can both try to understand why you flashed back to the pool incident – rather than Afghanistan … as has been your normal pattern?"

Silence. John stares at the muted shades of the oriental carpet under their feet. After a moment, he nods. "Yeah. Yes, I can do that."

"Good. Because John, while I said earlier that I had no problem with covering as much ground as possible in today's session, I really need to know what has been going on with you, particularly since the mansion. All of us experienced – well, there's no need to recap any of it. We were all in the thick of it. You and Sherlock, most of all. But I can see that you have been through some changes, John, and I want to help you understand any underlying causes of concern. Can we work through these experiences together?"

John tilts his blonde head slightly and grins at her. It's the patented John Watson grin and just like that, ten years drop from his face. Unconsciously, her green eyes widen. Maggie realises, not for the first time, how very handsome this ex-soldier and doctor is. And she sees again what a certain Consulting Detective finds so very attractive and appealing in the man who sits opposite her. John Watson is always, she finds, quietly intriguing, until he grins. And then he's devastating.

She smiles back, satisfied, and settles herself in her chair.

"Let's start with your walking away from the flat, John. And go on from there. Since it seems to have triggered a flashback."

He nods. "Okay then. But Sherlock is not –"

"No worries, John. You'll have the recording, if you wish him to ever hear it. If not," she shrugs, "it doesn't leave this room. Until you're ready to talk to him about it."

She leans over, clicks on the digital recorder once more, then settles back in her chair.

John stares at the hundreds of volumes in the bookshelves, while he gathers his thoughts.

"Maggie, some of it I remember, and some of it, it was kind of muddled. Harry filled it in for me the next day, when we met for coffee."

She glances at him. "Harry … Harriet, your sister?"

He nods. "And some of it…Sherlock and I...we talked afterward."

Maggie smiles. "Excellent, John. Okay, just talk at your own pace." She retrieves her pad.

"Whenever you're ready, John."

**OooOooO**

**FORTY-EIGHT HOURS EARLIER – Clara and Harry's Flat**

"John!"

Clara kneels next to John, who has slipped from the sofa to the floor, curled in on himself. He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes to shut out the light. And groans.

"John. John! Please. Tell me what I need to do to help you."

Clara wraps her arms around him to pull his huddled body toward her. He leans into her warm body and shakes. He still has not dropped his hands from his eyes. She leans one shoulder against the sofa to help her steady him.

She thinks she hears him say "Jim?" But she's not certain. His voice is a harsh whisper, barely discernible. He shakes his head once and his body goes rigid, and then begins to shake again. She can feel the tiny tremors through the palms of her hands.

_Jim who? What is this? He suffers from PTSD. Is this what an attack looks like? Dear Christ in heaven, what in hell does she do now? And where in hades is Harry when she needs her most?_

Clara speaks urgently to the former soldier, and notes her own hands are none too steady.

"John, please. Should I call Sherlock? An ambulance? Do you need medication? Who – who should I call?"

The front door opens and she raises her voice in a frantic plea.

"Harry? I need help. It's John. He's – just get in here!"

"John?"

Clara hears the shopping hit the floor with a thud. Something rolls across the floor, probably tins. Harry ignores them and rushes into their living area. She takes in the scene at a glance, then hurries over, kneeing the coffee table out of her way. She drops to her knees next to John, and places one hand against his cheek.

Clara looks from John's pinched face to Harry's wide eyes.

"Johnny? Can you hear me?"

John continues to shake but he finally drops his hands from his eyes. His eyes remain closed as his arms wrap around his bent knees. He begins to rock back and forth against Clara. His breath comes in short gasps and his chest labors to draw in air.

"What do we do?" Clara tries to keep her voice steady, but to be honest, she's scared to death.

Harry frowns, then shakes her head. "Not certain. Let's try to get him off the floor."

The two women, working from each side, manage to get John off the floor and back onto the sofa, where he automatically curls in on himself, nearly in the foetal position. Clara bites her lip and wonders if she should lift his head onto one of the pillows. She glances at Harry, who shakes her head.

"Best not," she says.

Clara nods and bends to yank a colorful knitted afghan off the sofa back, then wraps it gently around her former, and future, brother-in-law. She keeps one slim hand on John's shoulder to let him know he's not alone and looks into Harry's blue eyes, gone suspiciously bright.

"What do you mean, you're not certain? What have you done in the past? Does he need meds or an ambulance ?"

Harry squats on the carpet next to John and feels his forehead. No fever.

She looks up into Clara's warm brown eyes. "I mean, this is the first time that I've … I've never seen him in an attack before," she snaps.

Clara's eyes widen. "That's not possible, Harry. He's your brother, for Christ's sake!"

Harry's eyes fill and she continues to rub her palm back and forth over John's shaking form, over the blanket top. "I've never seen one, ever. I know he has them. But this is the first time he's gone and had one in front of me!"

She leans her curly head over until her cheek rests against John's arm, both of which hug his midsection. "Johnny?" she says quietly. "John? Come back. Please tell us what to do."

"That's it. I'm calling an ambulance," Clara snaps. She stands and glances around for her mobile.

"Sherlock – Run!" John's sudden exclamation startles Clara. She drops her phone on the carpet.

Harry gasps, then bites her lip. She leans over to wrap both arms around her brother as much as she is able.

"John would want us to call the arse first," she says grimly.

Clara shakes her head and her shining auburn hair dances. "Ambulance first. Arse later," she says.

"Clara – don't."

Clara pauses, her thumb on the button. She stares from Harry to John's shaking form, which seems to have settled down some, and back to Harry again.

"Don't what? Don't get your brother help?"

Harry rises. She tugs the mobile out of her fiancée's hands and holds it to her side.

"John wouldn't appreciate it. He usually … he says he comes out of these pretty fast."

The two women turn to stare at John Watson. Clara frowns. The taller of the two, she looks down into Harry's eyes.

"Harry, are you sure? I mean. Jesus, I've never seen anything like this before. I just think he'll be better off in hospital or –"

"How long has he been in this one?"

Clara glances at John again. He has stopped shaking, but remains curled up on the sofa, his eyes tightly shut. His normally slightly tanned face is unusually pale.

She glances at the small crystal clock on a side table. "About five minutes, maybe less, before you came in. He was nearly into it when his taxi pulled up. So…ten minutes?"

Harry nods at her, then rubs her palms up and down Clara's arms in an attempt to calm her. "Let's give it a few minutes okay? He's breathing all right and all."

She turns abruptly and goes back to sit next to John. And glances up at Clara. "I just know he wouldn't appreciate it if we get him to hospital. If he seems in distress later, then … "

"God, Harry, what do you call distress?"

Clara abruptly sits in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Agitated, she rests her hands in her lap and stares at John, as she twists her engagement ring round and round her finger.

She watches Harry as she rests her hand on John's wrist, ostensibly to take his pulse. She bites her lip, worrying at her lip gloss.

"How's he doing?" Clara asks.

Harry sighs and scrubs a palm over her eyes. Then runs the same hand through her curls. They stand up and give her a slightly wild look.

"He seems calmer now. Maybe he's coming out of it."

"And maybe we're both damn fools for not getting him medical attention," Clara says. She glances at the clock. "Nearly fifteen minutes now since he arrived," she says.

Harry stands and begins to pace back and forth behind the sofa. "Hell, Clara, I don't know. I just know John told me once, if he ever went into one of these episodes, not to call an ambulance, unless he was in actual physical distress."

Clara shuts her eyes, momentarily. "Harry, please. It's John. We need to do something. We can't just sit here." She opens her brown eyes to stare over at Harriet. Harry shakes her head.

Abruptly, Clara stands and moves to Harriet Watson's side. She grabs the other woman by the shoulders. "Listen, love. This is  _John_  we're talking about. At least, let's call Sherlock. He'll know what to do."

Angry, Harry pulls out of her embrace. "No. I'm not calling that bloody bastard. Not unless John asks me to."

"Good, 'cause I'm not asking you." Both women turn their heads to stare at John. His eyes are open and he coughs. His voice is wrecked. "Don't call the bastard, not yet at any rate."

"John!" Harry rushes to sit next to him and help him sit up. John wearily nods his thanks and leans back against the sofa. He shuts his eyes again and concentrates on his breathing. She places one firm hand on his good shoulder. He lifts his head and she stares at his red-rimmed eyes. "You imbecile. You had us worried sick."

He leans back, his head against the sofa rest. "Just give me a minute, Harry."

"Okay." Both women remain silent for a full minute. Harry, unable to sit still any longer, goes into the small kitchen and puts on the kettle. She moves back and forth as she gathers tea mugs and milk.

Clara stares after her. "Harry, for Gods' sake, the last thing he wants right now is tea."

"Actually, tea sounds pretty good," John says. He opens his eyes and Clara is struck with how he appears to have aged in a few minutes' time. "I'm fine. Just a bit knackered. Give it a few, Clara. Don't fuss."

Clara's brown eyes fix on his. "Okay, John."

She stands and goes to the outer hallway to retrieve Harry's shopping bags. John leans into the sofa cushions and listens as the two women argue quietly with each other in the kitchen. He glances around the room, more to keep himself awake than out of curiosity.

He notes the soft colors and various feminine touches, Clara's doing, obviously. Clara comes out with two steaming cups of tea. She sets one on the coffee table and then scoots the table with her foot until it's in front of John. He nods his thanks. Harry follows with her own cup and perches on the sofa arm.

There's a moment's silence. John can nearly feel Harry vibrating with curiosity next to him. He waits for his sister's impatient questions. He doesn't have to wait very long.

"So," Harry says. She turns her head to look at her younger brother. "Want to tell us what brought all that on?"

John sighs. He bends forward to carefully place his cup on the table in front of him. Then he turns slightly the better to look at his sister. Harry has the slightly sallow complexion of the recovering alcoholic, he notes sadly. But her blonde curls shine and her dark blue eyes are clear.

He tries to smile at her. "Not really," he says. "But you're not going to let it go until I do, are you?"

"Damn right," Harry says firmly.

"Harriet," Clara says. "Let the man be."

"No. It's all right," John says quietly. He leans forward and clasps his hands in front of him.

"Things have been a bit strained since this weekend." He glances over at Clara. "We spent it at his Mum's place."

"Dear God," Harry breathes. She plunks down on the seat next to John. "Don't tell me. Let me guess. Was the whole posh crowd in attendance?"

"No, Harry. It was just Regina, Mrs. Holmes, that is. Mycroft, naturally. And Sherlock. And me, of course."

He shuts his eyes for a moment, then opens them to stare at the carpet.

"Turns out, Sherlock has made a few calls behind my back. To my doctor at St. Anne's. And he's been speaking with Thomas."

"Okay. Thomas  _who_?" Harry prompts.

"Jeez, Harry, Thomas Fields. He's the Holmes family doctor. And now mine. Or will be." He runs a hand through his hair. It's still slightly damp with sweat and the ends stick up. Clara smiles softly at the uncanny resemblance between the two siblings.

"Anyway, I didn't appreciate it. I told him I expect him to ask me before he makes inquiries about my health behind my back. And about follow-up visits. And about probable after effects of that damned drug. All of it, I guess."

"You've lost me, John," Clara says. She sets her tea down and smiles sympathetically at her brother-in-law.

In as few words as possible, John fills them in on the problems he was experiencing with Frank's drug. And the fact that he'd gone cold turkey on the medication that was supposed to help him.

"So these injections nearly ended up killing you?" Harry demands.

"Ta, Harry," John says. He does not mention his own chaotic thoughts. Or his aborted attempt at putting a bullet in his brain. "Sherlock sorted it. Thankfully. Sounds a bit much, when I put it like that."

He says quietly, more to himself than to his audience, "I guess I lost my temper. I know I must have hurt him when I left like that."

 _Stormed out_ , he thinks. But he doesn't say it.

He stops talking. He hates the fact that his sister knows so much about him. For some reason, he doesn't seem to mind so much about Clara.

There's an uneasy silence, as the three of them mess with their cups of tea.

Clara glances over John's head to Harry, her auburn brows raised in a question. Harry shrugs. She couldn't care less about the arse's feelings.

Clara shakes her head and turns back to John. She speaks slowly, feeling her way. What she wants to do is ask who  _Jim_  is and why John shouted out his name that way. She has never seen an attack such as John has just experienced and she is full of questions. But she says none of that.

What she does say is, "So, John, what you're saying is that Sherlock was concerned you had not kept your follow-up visits. Do I have that right? And he took it upon himself to speak with your cardiologist about this fact, to try to get at the facts about your health? And this angered you … despite the fact that you made certain he could make those choices, when necessary, by giving him your medical power of attorney. Do I have all of this correct?"

Startled, John's eyes widen and he looks from Clara to Harry, who just smirks.

"Sorry," Harry says, not sorry one bit. "Couldn't care less about the arse's feelings. But when you put it like that, it does sound a bit as if you –"

"Jumped the gun, John," Clara says quietly.

John frowns. "No, that's not how it – wait." He rubs his forehead. "No. He was being a right royal pain about it."

"And you hated him going over your head, correct?"

John nods at Clara. "Yeah. Exactly."

Clara sips at her Earl Grey and watches the milk swirl in its amber depths. She muses slowly.

"John, every time your life partner, soon to be your husband, shows concern over your health, are you going to get mad and walk out on him?"

"Okay. Okay, I get it."

John ducks his head. He looks at the carpet between his boots.  _Jesus, what the fuck is wrong with him, anyway?_

He looks up at his sister and her off-again, on-again life partner.

"You're right. He didn't deserve any of that. I may have over-reacted. Just a bit." The lame joke falls flat and he winces.

"Not compared to what he's done to you, John," Harry protests.

Clara looks at her over John's head and frowns.

"John, do you want to kip here tonight? We've loads of room. No worries."

"No. No. That's – thanks, but nope. I think I should go home and get this sorted."

Harry fumes. "John, just stay. We can get caught up and God knows, that arrogant twit can use the lesson."

John frowns. "Lesson?"

She nods. Her short dark blonde curls dance. "Yeah, dear brother. He can learn how the other half feels. Jesus, he's treated you like dirt often enough. Let him get a taste of his own medicine."

John looks from Harry to Clara. Clara thinks he looks almost panicked and wonders if they've gone too far. "Is that what I'm doing?" he asks. Beside him, Harry huffs in annoyance. He ignores her.

Clara sets down her tea and reaches one hand toward John. Automatically, he reaches out and takes her small warm hand with his own. She squeezes once, then releases his fingers.

"I'm afraid so, John."

"And about damn time too," Harry spouts. She stares angrily from her brother to Clara.

"But that's – no. No. I don't want him to think that I … hang it. That's not what I meant," John says. His voice, still rough, betrays his growing agitation. He looks at Clara and his dark blue eyes hold a hint of desperation. "Clara, can you –"

"Call a cab?"

"Yeah, please. If you don't –"

"I don't mind at all, Sweetie." She stands up, snags her mobile and goes into the next room to make the call.

John and Harry sit in silence for a moment. Harry studies her brother's bright hair.

"John, are you sure you want to go back to that idiotic twit of a …"

"Yeah, Harry, I'm sure. And give it a rest, okay?"

Harry sets her cup down with a thump and stands up. She turns her back to him and looks toward Clara, who comes in from the kitchen, mobile in hand.

"He's on his way, John." Clara sets the phone down and retrieves her rapidly cooling tea. Harry brushes by her on her way to the kitchen. Neither woman looks at the other.

Clara studies the former soldier over the rim of her cup.

"You know, John, given the last couple of months, I'm surprised this day hasn't happened sooner."

John grins wryly.

"You think?" he says.

Clara smiles. "Sure. And you know it, too. You must be working through so many things on so many levels - your kidnapping and assault, the trouble at the mansion, Sherlock's family problems, your friend Lestrade's situation."

John looks startled.  _Greg._  He hasn't given a thought to his friend's situation or to his sick little girl. Shame washes over him when he compares Greg's troubles to his and Sherlock's. In the light of it, his actions seem silly.

_What in bloody hell is wrong with me? I'm jumping at shadows. That's not me. Never has been. Shite._

"I didn't know that you or Harry knew that much about what we've been through or anything about Lestrade, for that matter."

She smiles sweetly and John can't help smiling back. Once again, he wonders how in hell his twit of a sibling could ever let this wonderful woman go. Thankfully, things appear to be back on track. That is, if Harry doesn't do something supremely idiotic to derail her life again. Like falling off the wagon.

On the other hand, maybe messing things up is a Watson sibling trait.

"I know you knew about the kidnapping. Both of you had to pay the price of being spirited away, after all, but the mansion and Lestrade?"

Harry comes back into the room, a small plate of biscuits in her hands. "Oh for God's sake, John. You and Holmes and your doings are always beeb and net sensations, didn't you know that? And that exploding mansion … Christ. It was all over the news feeds."

"And Greg's daughter?" John prompts.

Harry plunks the china plate down on the coffee table. "You aren't the only one with your resources, you know," she says.

Clara looks at her and frowns. "For heaven's sakes, Harry, you make it sound as if we're spies or something." She turns back to John. "And as for 'paying the price of being spirited away,' John, what part of vacation in Aruba, all expenses paid, sounds particularly horrendous?"

Harry smiles smugly and picks up her mug again. "Well, at least one Holmes had the decency to make sure we were looked after."

John ignores her and puts his attention on Clara. "Seriously, Clara, how did you know about Greg's daughter?"

Clara runs a beautifully manicured nail around the rim of her tea cup. She looks thoughtful. "I have a friend, a nurse, who works on the cancer ward of Children's Hospital. She knows that I know you and Sherlock and Detective Inspector Lestrade and she filled me in. Poor wee thing. But she's fighting. According to my friend, they have a most excellent doctor now. And they've started a new, aggressive treatment. She has a very good chance of pulling back from this."

Harry says nothing but John sees his sister glare into her tea, as if it has personally affronted her.

"A  _friend_ ," she mutters, putting a decidedly snide emphasis on the word.

Clara looks up sharply. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Watson, give it a rest, will you? We were apart at the time. Uncoupled. So just drop it."

Both women glare at each other. John looks resigned _. Business as usual then._

He rubs his face tiredly. "Well, that's something. And you're right, Clara. I've blown this out of proportion. It's just, with this bloody weekend and all, and we had a round of cases a week ago which kept us out all hours. Hell, I can't remember the last time either of us has had a decent night's sleep."

He deliberately doesn't mention Sherlock's episode in the car, the revelations concerning Nicholas Holmes or the detective's reaction to the news of his mother's impending divorce. Some things are just not for public consumption. And he deliberately lumps his sister in amongst that number.

But Clara's right. He acted like a six-year-old.

For fucks sake, what is wrong with him?

 _I'm supposed to be the adult in this relationship,_  John thinks tiredly.  _But I've been acting like…like Sherlock acts."_

"Well?" Harry demands.

John glances at his sister. He raises one pale eyebrow.

Clara sighs. "You're welcome to stay here, John, as we said before. My other half is trying to say that she doesn't feel it is in your best interests to go back to Baker Street, not just at the moment."

"Thanks but that's exactly what I intend to do. Now, as a matter of fact."

He sets his cold tea down on the table. Suddenly, he cannot get away fast enough. There's something about being this close to his sister that exhausts him. Or maybe it's not Harry at all.

 _Maybe it's just me,_  John thinks. He realises he's so tired he feels a bit dizzy.

"Well, I think you're both arses," Harry snaps. She walks out of the room. In a moment, he hears her rummaging through the cupboards. "Someone's got to fix a meal around here," she mutters.

John looks toward the kitchen and wonders if he should go to her but Clara holds up one hand. "Don't. Just let her be. I'll take care of her later, John."

He smiles. "I'm not even going to ask what that means."

"Best not."

They hear the short staccato of a taxi horn. Clara stares into John's eyes, her concern evident. "John, at least let me drive over with you. The cabbie can bring me back."

He shakes his head. "No need, Clare, I'm out of it now. I'm fine. Just – I'm fine."

She doesn't believe him one bit, but she doesn't push it. John envelopes her in a quick hug. She kisses his cheek, then brushes one hand down his face. "Take care of yourself, Sweetie. Okay? For both of us?"

"Sure. You, too." He tosses a quick, "Cheers, Harry," over his shoulder. Then he's gone.

At the sound of the door closing, Harry comes out of the kitchen, a box of pasta in her hands. She glances at the closed door, then looks at Clara.

Clara sighs. "Listen, Love, the next time we play Good Cop, Bad Cop, try to follow my lead, okay?"

Harry grins. "Sure. Like you were saying all the right things."

Clara goes to her, takes the box out of her hands and tosses it onto the sofa. Harry leans her blonde head against the other woman's shoulder.

"He'll be okay," Clara says softly. "They've got each other. They'll work their way through this."

Harry sniffs once, then turns to hide her face in her lady love's soft shirt. "Yeah, I know. It's just … seeing him in that stupid hospital bed wasn't bad enough. That posh house, blown to bloody hell and him in it at the time."

"I know, Harriet. I know."

The two women stand wrapped up in each other for a moment.

Harry takes a deep breath. Gently, she splays the fingers of one hand over Clara's abdomen. "How's it going in there?"

Clara smiles into her blue eyes. "Why didn't you tell him?"

Harry shakes her curls. "Rotten timing. I've been an arse to my brother for years and years and to you, love. I just didn't… it's not right to parade our happiness in front of him, not now. Not when he and the jackass are having problems. Later."

"Why I do declare, Miz Watson, we will make a genteel lady out of you yet."

Clara tugs gently on Harry and the smaller woman leans into her embrace.

Harry grins against the warm skin. "You have a rotten southern American accent."

"And you are a horrid bad cop."

Harry frowns, then pulls away slightly.

"What do you mean, I make a horrid 'bad cop'? I'll have you know I make a very good 'bad cop'!"

Clara grins. "Then come to bed and prove it to me."

**OooOooO**

John stops speaking. He stares at the notepad in Maggie's hands. Then glances up at the psychologist. "I guess I remembered more of that than I thought. And Harry filled me in on – a lot of things the next day. We - talked."

Maggie quietly clicks off the recorder, then sets her pad down.

"That's often the case, John, when you begin to remember events." She fixes him with a steady gaze. "I take it that your sister was worried about you, after your attack, and wanted to meet for coffee to see for herself that you were okay."

John scrubs his face with a hand. "Yeah. I guess." He thinks for a moment. She doesn't interrupt him but just waits.

"Maggie. Back in the mansion, when you – regressed me – hell, I don't know what word to use."

"One word is as good as another, John," she says quietly.

He nods. "Okay. I don't know, exactly, what made me flash to the pool and to Mor- to that night. I remember I smelled flowers that night. Same thing Monday. Someone was selling them on the street corner. Maybe the traffic or sounds of the city. Hell, I don't know. Nothing similar about the weather, that's for sure. I walked away from Sherlock that night, too."

"But you weren't angry with him that first time, right?"

He shakes his head. "No. Not angry. Just going to meet a friend for tea."

She waits, then prompts him gently. "John?"

Lost in his memories, John sits up in his chair. Enough of this shilly shallying about.

"What next, Maggie?" he asks.

She thinks. "You went back to Sherlock." She makes it a statement not a question.

"Yeah."

"Okay." She looks from him to the little recorder. "John, I don't want to pry into any private moments between you and Sherlock. And you can certainly refuse, if you wish. But I think we should continue on. Can you tell me what you can about that afternoon, when you left Harry and went back to Baker Street?"

He frowns. "That happened after my attack, Maggie. Not before."

"I'm aware, John. But something happened that day, and possibly that weekend, that led up to the incident. You mentioned the smell of flowers. The fact you had walked away from Sherlock. Traffic noises. City sounds. The actual symptoms began in the cab, on your way to your sister's flat, correct?"

He doesn't correct her. Clara's flat. Not Harry's. But it seems unimportant. So he just nods. And feels his fingers tighten on the arm rests. Maggie glances at his hands.

"And you experienced the flashback in Harry and Clara's flat? And you remember some of that, enough to know that you had flashed back to the pool incident." Another statement.

He nods. "Also, Harry told me something, at coffee the next day, that –"

"Stop right there, John." Maggie leans toward him. "John, sometimes, if we go over events in a linear fashion, point A to B and then on to C, it helps us to understand prior events. You're doing so well. Perhaps, if you talk about going back to Baker Street - just generalities, mind you - it might lead to more coherent memories of what you experienced that afternoon. And more importantly, why you experienced it."

She pauses for a moment to give him the chance to speak. But John says nothing. Maggie goes on.

"So if you're willing, go back to that afternoon two days ago. Go back to Monday. Talk about the things you wish to talk about. Then we can come forward to the next day, which would be yesterday, when you met Harry for coffee. And what she told you that reinforced your memories of the incident."

John absorbs this for a minute, then nods. "Okay, Maggie. I see where you're going with this. But Sherlock and I are in the middle of a case. Some of that came up Monday. I can't talk about any of those details."

He looks up at her and frowns. "If it's okay with you, I'd rather...can we just - I think I need to talk about the pool. I think there's something there, something that's been bugging me for a while, but damned if I know what it is."

She tilts her dark head and looks at him. "Okay, John. Then let's talk about the pool. Where do you want to start?"

He thinks for a second, his hands clasped in front of him. "As I said, I'd walked away from Sherlock that time, too. But for different reasons. We hadn't argued or anything. I remember it was cold, too. Bloody cold. The windows were covered over, not replaced yet." He looks at her wryly. "They'd been blown out."

Maggie raises an expressive eyebrow, but does not comment.

His voice begins to trail off. Then his dark blue gaze focuses on her familiar face. "Maggie? I really need to get this out. I haven't even spoken with Sherlock about this."

She considers, her bright gaze shrewd. "Of course, John. If talking about this incident will help you with recent ones -"

"I think it will - God, I hope so."

"Okay. The pool, it is. And I can always compare notes with what you posted about that night on your blog."

His eyes widen and his hands clasp more tightly.

"I couldn't - I mean, I didn't write up my personal recollections on that one. Moriarty got away and the Yard was insistent that certain facts -"

"I understand, John. Frankly, I'm rather amazed at some of the details that do find their way into your blog."

"Okay, where do we start?"

"First, are you comfortable? Need a quick break?"

He shakes his head. "No, I'm good."

She smiles. "That's fine, John. Speak at your own pace. If you pause, I'll wait for you to review those events and decide whether or not you can talk about them. I won't prompt you." She grins. "Unless you fall asleep."

 _Not a chance in hell,_  he thinks.

Out loud, John laughs. "Okay, Maggie. You have my permission to wake me up."

Maggie picks up her pad and pen, but pauses with her finger on the digital recorder button.

"And John? Please be assured that if at any time you show any evidence of stress, I'll stop this session immediately."

He regards her solemnly. "I know that, Maggie."

_Tell her. Tell her now. Warn her._

"I know you do. But professional ethics dictate I tell you that."

"Maggie, I need to just say...bits of it are not ... . I mean, some of the things that happened ... oh, hell!"

He runs a calloused hand through his bright hair. The ends stick up and she suppresses a smile.

"It's -"

She regards him solemnly. "A bit not good?" she prompts, her voice deliberately lower.

He nods. "Ta. Exactly."

"Then let's see what we can do about that," she says. He looks directly into her green eyes. There is something about her determination that reminds him, albeit subtly, of his fellow soldiers.

_I'm in good hands. Let's do this._

A wave of fondness sweeps over John as he watches Margaret Oakton. He feels more at ease than he has felt for the entire afternoon.

She clicks on the recorder, then settles back, one elbow on her arm rest, her notepad in her hand. "Ready when you are, John."

She does not speak again, but waits quietly for him to gather his thoughts.

Outside, the water spray from the fountain catches the late afternoon sun. Brilliant sparks of crystal dance in his peripheral vision.

John shuts his eyes against the dazzling display for a moment, then opens them.

He leans forward, hands clasped, and begins to speak.

**OooOooO**

*Dido  _White Flag_

**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Chapter 18, upcoming, recounts John's eventual memories of abduction and physical and psychological torture. If you are a survivor, or if head games are not your thing, please skip the next chapter – Chapter 18. I would never fault you for it. (I'm warning ahead of time so you can make an informed decision here. I will warn at the beginning of Chapter 18, as well.)**


	18. Chapter 18

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Book One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 18**

" **The Doctor, the Detective, and the Irishman" - Part Two**

**WARNINGS: Psychological counseling. Mention of Kidnapping. Non-con drug use. Physical restraint and abuse. Torture. (I've written worse.) Memories of war and imprisonment. Betrayal. Mention of cold-blooded murder. Self-doubt. Language. If any of these are a potential trigger for you, please skip this chapter entirely. I would never fault you for it.**

**OooOooO**

" **It is not the cold that makes me shiver."**

**Arthur Conan Doyle**

**OooOooO**

**Maggie clicks on the digital recorder, and then takes up her notepad and pen. She nods at John.**

**John leans forward, and begins to speak.**

**OooOooO**

He walks away from Baker Street, happy to be shut of the case for a few hours, even happier to leave Sherlock behind, raving at bad telly. Besides, it's freezing in the flat. The explosion (Gas? Really?) did a number on their windows and the temporary coverings are doing very little to keep out the cold. He plunges his fists in the pockets of his coat and walks quickly as he can through the chill night air.

He thinks of Sarah, her pretty face and soft figure, chestnut hair and comforting – read _sane_ \- presence. He thinks of tea and biscuits and possibly the "time after that," they have promised themselves. He grins. With any luck, he will not be returning to Baker Street tonight.

That's when he notes the sleek car, a smooth slide of shining black paint, which reflects the yellow street lamps as it slowly keeps pace.

 _Shite. Can't a man visit his girlfriend for tea without being abducted off the streets of London for God's sake?_  His blood pressure rises and he momentarily thinks of texting Sherlock. And telling the detective what, exactly? That his brother is a dick and a royal pain in the arse?

_Old news._

"Not this bloody time, Mycroft Holmes," John mutters. He detours through a convenient alley in order to duck his pursuer. And looks up, stunned, as the car pulls into view, then swings into the end of the alley, effectively blocking his access to the next street over.

"Well, bugger," John says. His eyes narrow. He can just make out the driver's silhouette, although no facial features are discernible.

_Damn Mycroft Holmes to hell anyway. And the horse he rode in on._

John stands, his arms held loose at his sides, and watches as the driver pulls into the alley a few more feet, then stops. The motor purrs. The back passenger door opens.

"Tell your boss to kindly fuck off," he calls. His voice echoes in the dank alley.

The man straightens and John sees his hand. It's twilight, nearly too dark to discern detail but the headlights reflect off the brick walls on either side. They lend an ominous glow to his surroundings. This, along with the interior car light, helps to outline the gun.

"I'm certain he'll keep that in mind," the man says coldly.

John frowns. The elder Holmes is maddening, but thus far, he has not resorted to using force.

He thinks of his gun, tucked away in his bureau drawer, and frowns. Naturally, he has come out without the weapon. Who in hell visits their girlfriend armed?

"I wouldn't, Dr. Watson," his accoster says. "He wouldn't like it. We're to bring you in undamaged."

The man takes two steps toward John and now John can clearly see the gun. The driver sits unmoving, a dark blur in the driver's seat.

"Get in the car, Dr. Watson. Make it easy on yourself."

John's posture straightens. He plants his feet farther apart and narrows his eyes to preserve his night vision.

"For fuck's sakes, I think your boss is getting a bit out of hand," he says. "And point that thing somewhere else. I have no intention of going anywhere with you."

The man lifts the gun. John cannot be certain of what type of weapon he holds. He  _is_  definitely certain that said weapon now points at his chest.

_Not Mycroft Holmes then._

The elder Holmes brother's control issues know no bounds but there is no way the man would send an armed escort to pluck him off the streets.

Or would he?

The front passenger door opens and another large figure steps out and advances. John cannot see his hands and this fact frustrates the hell out of him. The driver sits, immobile, a third shadowy threat in John's vision.

"Get in, boyo," the second man says.

John's eyes narrow. He quickly runs through his options.

Behind him, the alley entrance and Baker Street. There is no way he's visible to Sherlock or anyone for that matter from behind, unless they step into the alleyway. And more to the point, he is not visible to any of Mycroft's security cameras. A fire escape by his side but he'd have to make a pretty good jump. He cannot possibly hope to out-leap a bullet.

The second man advances, gun held to the ready.

He gestures and John raises his arms, palms outward.

_What the bloody fuck?_

John gets in the backseat of the car. One of the large men sits beside him on his left side – his dominant side. Someone's done their homework, John muses. His heart rate has sped up slightly but so far, he's strangely calm. The other, still a dark silhouette, gets in front next to the driver. The driver neatly backs the car out of the alley.

He hears the click as the door locks engage.

_Damn it to hell and back._

"Care to tell me where we're going?"

The large man in the front seat remains a blur in the dark interior. The rough voice orders him to "Shut the hell up, Watson, and do as you're told."

John frowns. The voice is … familiar.

But … no. Not possible.

It can't be. Not in the middle of Westminster, in the heart of London.

No.

He rubs his palms up and down his worn jeans. Beside him the taller man shifts slightly but makes no other move. He could be alone in the back seat of the damned car.

John clears his throat. "I asked, where are we going?"

"Told Jim you wouldn't be able to keep your bloody mouth shut," the same rough voice says.

The man in the front seat half turns. Gestures.

Too late, John registers the movement from the man next to him and twists, ready to fight.

It's over before it starts. A sharp stab in his neck and John feels his grip on his assailant loosen, then fall away. Dimly, he's aware he managed to land a single punch. His hand stings.

Someone laughs.

**OooOooO**

" _Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."_

The warning rings bells even as he can't be bothered to remember who originally delivered it. He seems robbed of sight but sound returns, amplified and terrifying.

John is vaguely aware that he is being moved. Someone is manhandling him, moving his body. His head swims.

He's floating in a no man's land of harsh sounds and near suffocating heat. The sounds and heat are all too familiar. The pain is not. There's a pain in his neck and shoulder. More pain in his hand. A near encompassing pain in his skull.

Was he in a fight? If so, it's obvious he is not the victor here.

If he dies, Sherlock is going to be royally angry with him.

Something about this thought makes John giggle.

His senses reel. London falls away and he struggles with what he knows to be a stress attack, yet even that knowledge, too, fails, as he becomes lost in his own head.

He's no longer just an unwilling passenger in a dark car, smelling of leather and oddly, vodka.  His world has shifted.

The night air is no longer cool and it's no longer night and no longer London.

And even as John struggles against the drug, grapples with his psyche, he feels himself slip into the all too familiar world of once-crisp uniforms, smelling now of sweat and petroleum jelly and fear; of eyes narrowed behind dark glasses, in an attempt to keep out the constant blast of sand and grit; his head swiveling this way and that, keeping his surroundings in constant view, constant vigilance. He registers the weight of his pack and the weight of his helmet and the feel of the weapon in his hands.

_No. Christ, no._

Someone laughs. Again.

John's mind recognises the bark of a laugh. Oh, yes, he knows that voice, roughened by cigar smoke and too many cigarettes.

His weapons are taken away and he struggles to voice his orders to his subordinates – but no voice comes.

It's all in his head.

And what's in John Watson's head can be very scary, indeed.

The scenario shifts and changes, nebulous as his thoughts have become.

_What in the hell did they shoot him up with?_

Harsh words buffet him and rough hands jerk him around, force him to his knees, his back to the broken concrete wall. Unwilling, he goes down. The pain in his knees and his neck nudge him half awake. He listens to guttural words and broken phrases, spoken in a language he hasn't used since – he can't remember.

" _Bandai_!"

The single word is shouted to them. A threat and a promise.

Prisoner? He and his people? Where  _are_  his people? For that matter, where are his weapons and supplies?

John's head sags. He struggles to take a deep breath in the near suffocating heat.

Someone grabs at his face. Blunt fingers with torn nails push at his chin. The ragged nails draw blood. Sticky liquid trickles down his chin.

The merciless hand jerks his head up and the smell of gun-oil and human feces make him hold his breath and try to turn his head away.

 _God, this place is particularly rank. Rancid cooking oil and day-old meat. The acrid smell of urine and animal feces. And over and surrounding all of it, the copper tang of blood_.

Still, it's familiar. He's at home here – or was.

Someone speaks to him, the rough voice urgent and far too close. Hot breath pushes the words into his face. He experiences overwhelming thirst. It's nearly unbearable. He tries to summon up enough saliva to swallow, but his throat muscles won't work. His mouth hangs open, slack.

Nothing is working. Nothing is as it should be.

" _John. Really. A stress attack? I need you awake and aware."_

The voice, honeyed, dark, _loved_ , strikes through the fog and serves as an anchor.

He needs to wake up. He can't wake up. He's been drugged. Obvious. Some doctor he turned out to be. How in bloody hell did they -

_God…where are his people? Amber was behind him and Tim. Mac was on point._

Murray was a klick behind with the others and they got separated on way to the FRV and how…bloody hell…  _how_  did that happen, and where is Bill anyway? He's going to shake the liver and lights out of him when he next sees the American.

This was to be a mission of mercy. Mercy. He wants to laugh. Needs to piss. Would kill – nearly – for a single swallow of water.

His chin is jerked again, the movement sharp. The single word cuts into the air around his aching head.

Someone laughs.

"Doctor?"

His head lulls again. Urgency makes him take a breath.

_His people are prisoners. Amber. Tim. McKenny, Mac for short. Not supposed to happen._

He struggles to open his eyes. It's a battle but when he can finally see, it's to face Amber's wide brown eyes, fearful, as they stare into his. He tries to wink at her. Not sure if he succeeds. His cheek is swelling from the impact of someone's fist and he just now registers the fact.

It'll be all right. It's under control.

" _God, you're a shite liar, John."_

Sherlock's voice.

No. Wrong. The detective can't be here. He knows exactly where he is – Helmand Province.

The detective can't possibly be here.

Still …

Boots on broken pavement. Someone steps in between him and Amber and Tim and John can't keep his eyes open to save his life. And where is Mac?

The steps are heavy. Whoever it is, is a large man. John hears bits of broken mortar crunch under the boot heels. He struggles but his hands are bound behind him. Useless.

_Utterly useless. His head swims._

"Captain Watson?" Amber's scared whisper wavers. He opens his eyes again in time to see it as she lifts her chin. Stares bravely right into his eyes. Then slowly looks up at whoever stands next to her. Her eyes widen.

Her voice is firm, but scared. God, he doesn't deserve Amber – doesn't deserve any of them.

They could have done so much better.

"I don't understand," she says.

Someone's voice. Clipped tones. Military. A voice he – nearly – recognises.

"No? Then allow me to explain. Your precious Captain Watson has led you into a tidy little setup. And I'm afraid I have to make a point here."

At the single shot, his body recoils, as if he is the one who has taken the bullet. A bitten off cry – Amber's? Jesus. His head lulls and his eyes close and he has never hated himself more.

A sharp cry. Then more sobbing. Then – nothing.

"You utter bastard."

Tim's voice. Good ole' Tim. Good on you, mate.

Someone stoops over him and jerks his head around and up.

" _Kinem. Yes. You dig. You all dig."_

A harsh laugh, joined by others. Then a grunted word. Just the one.

" _Sabaa_."

Tomorrow for what?

And then the heated whisper in his ear.  _"Sabaa. Tomorrow then. You wait."_

_And a fist drives again into his cheek, nearly exploding the bone. His head snaps back against the rough concrete behind him and he feels the sudden pain in the back of his skull as the impact splits the skin._

He bites back a cry.

_Don't let them see you weak. Give them nothing._

_Christ. Where in hell are they and what in hell has happened? Did someone just tell them they would dig their own graves – tomorrow?_

_Amber?_

"Doctor Watson."

John coughs. Once. Twice. He tries, but can't open his eyes. His shoulder throbs and his leg hurts like merry hell. There's a sharp pain in his neck. He tries to flex his hands. They are bound behind him.

_He's in charge, damn it. This was to be a milk run. Nearly a training mission. Nothing else. They've been betrayed. Anger makes his head reel and he doesn't remember where they all are or what their mission and it's all been shot to hell and damn it – he's in charge!_

_Where are his weapons? His supplies? He struggles to open his eyes and look for them but cannot get his eyelids to obey him._

He tries again. Finally.

John's eyes open and he stares, uncomprehending.

Why is Amber slumped sideways like that, her brown eyes open and looking straight at him?

She needs to stop looking like that – all crumpled like a broken doll. She looks very uncomfortable.

Her eyes stare at him. He stares back.

Someone is shouting. Screaming obscenities but his aching head can't be bothered to make them out.

Is it him? Yes, he's shouting at whoever stands over them.

His fault. His fault.

_Useless._

One of his captors bend over him and laughs.

" _Kandaharry."_

Man from Kandahar?

Jesus. H. Christ.

John knows only one man who goes by that description.

Hatred swells his chest and he tries to blink. Christ. Has he been crying?

"Doctor Watson."

_Fuck this shite._

This isn't real. It hasn't been real for more than a year.

_Then wake up. Reconnoiter. Take charge!_

He shuts his eyes and takes a deliberate breath, this time without gagging.

The smell of day old cooking oil and foul meats and baked bread falls away, replaced by the clean scent of breath mints and a man's expensive cologne.

Someone leans over him. A finger taps at his chin.

John struggles to pull away.

He can't.

"Doctor Watson…"

The voice rises on the last syllable … the intonation of his name spoken like a child recites a nursery rhyme.

" _Doctor_   _Wat – sonnn."_

The sounds of harsh grunts and heavy steps on broken concrete fade, along with the pervasive heat and dust and bits of dirt and sand that find their way into every crack and crevice. All. All of it fades, along with the overwhelming realization that someone has betrayed their position to the enemy. And Amber has paid the price.

Someone.

_Kandaharry._

It all withers and twists into ribbons, like London fog before a blast of frigid air.

He's not in Afghanistan. Those battles were fought.

He's – elsewhere.

_Holy Shite._

Ella told him what to do and acting on auto-pilot, he does it. John gathers the limp rags of memory and forces them into the bound chest in his mind. Slams the lid and gives a vicious twist to the locks.

There now. Living nightmares locked away, kept until called for.

He hasn't been Captain Watson for a long time now. He's John Watson, M.D.

Doctor Watson.

_And he was on his way … somewhere? To meet … someone?_

But…something is very wrong. He left someone behind and he can't quite remember who it was.

He tries to force himself awake and as he does so, dark brown eyes with their final accusing stare, give way to pale mercurial orbs and dark, curling hair. The amazing eyes look at him with an ironic expression.

_Sherlock._

John's mind jerks him  _nearly_  awake at the same time his jagged breaths jerk his body upright.

He's not in Kandahar. Helmand Province is a world away. He's in a different hell now.

He's with Sherlock at the water's edge and now Mycroft has walked up and together, both Holmes brothers turn and look at him with expectation. And mild derision.

John's breath hitches.  _Wake up, you idiot!_

_Christ, you're such a wanker! Wake up for bloody sakes!_

He vaguely feels it as his body is lifted and carried.

He's sat upright and his wrists bound behind him. His legs are bound to a chair.

"Doctor Watson."

He's a rock clinging to the edge of a waterfall. Water rushes over and around him, surrounding what's left of his strength and any minute now, any second, he's going to tumble and fall and Sherlock and Mycroft and the other man will see. The person who has come into the room and even now stands next to him. They'll all see and bear witness to the fall of John Hamish Watson.

He grasps at the rocks, but they're wet and his palms slide along their length.

His hands begin to lose their purchase.

Any moment now…any fucking second…

His fingers slip.

John falls.

**OooOooO**

"Wakee, wakee."

Childish words spoken in an unfamiliar voice.

John comes to slowly, aware that something is very, very wrong.

The headache makes itself known before anything else. Dull. Pounding.

Unbidden, a small groan forces its way from his dry lips and he stops trying to raise his head. He doubts if his shaking neck muscles will support its weight at the moment.

Second realization, his wrists are bound behind him. This accounts for the ache and pull in his shoulders and across his upper back and the resulting smaller ache in his lower spine. His body has slumped forward in his bonds while he was out.

His soldierly instincts kick in automatically. He's been here before.

 _Take inventory first. Deal with the pain later_.

Cautiously, he takes a deep breath, while the slow roiling in his gut warns him not to make any sudden moves if he doesn't want to see his last meal.

He keeps his eyes shut as he extends his awareness. Head - horrific.  _Eyes closed, Watson. Don't need any light in them just yet._

Chest and stomach muscles – sore. As are his fingers, as he flexes them to get the circulation going. He must have fought his captors. Good. He hopes he broke their heads for them.

Heart rate – much too slow for the situation he finds himself in.

Thought processes? Too damned slow by half.

He's been drugged.

"Obvious, John. Really, I'm a bit disappointed here." The deep baritone rings with sarcasm. John winces.

Then Sherlock claps his hands and the sound rocks John's aching head. He gasps aloud.

_Shut up, Sherlock! You're not even here!_

John attempts to shift his feet and realises his ankles are bound to the chair beneath him. There are more bindings across his thighs. And this has caused the strain in his thighs and calves, as he has obviously struggled while unconscious.

Rotten headache, general malaise, vile taste in his mouth, desire to vomit his guts up?

Definitely drugged. And bound. Really, he should feel flattered.

And oh God, he is going to bloody well  _kill_  Mycroft Holmes.

Now for it. John takes another cautious breath, and slowly opens his eyes.

Cruel light nearly blinds him and he blinks, then narrows his eyes against the vicious glare.

A blurred figure stands a few feet away.

John blinks again and cautiously opens his eyes a bit wider. The man comes into focus, but just barely. He stares at the slight figure with confusion.

His head throbs with ungodly pain and he strives to keep still, hoping lack of movement will ease the ache. He feels himself slip. Damn it, he's going under again and he groans with the knowledge.

_Drugged. Kidnapped off the bloody streets. Bound to a chair. Not Mycroft Holmes. Still. Where is the bastard when you need him? Mycroft and his damned surveillance cameras and all his agents?_

John's aching brain puts two and two together and realization washes over him in an ice cold wave of terror.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ.

_He's the fifth bloody pip._

**OooOooO**

"Doctor Watson. Hello again. So glad you could join me at last. It's going to be a glorious evening, don't you think?"

At the unfamiliar voice with its soft Irish lilt, John lifts his throbbing head and strives to focus on the figure in front of him. The man appears to be John's height but that is all he can make out. The other man gradually stops wavering in his vision and begins to resemble something human.

John notes the suit, but his eyes won't focus properly and he can't for the life of him discern the color. It might be dark blue. Pale skin. Not as pale as Sherlock's, but close. Dark hair. Trim cut.

And that's it. God, he's shite at noticing details when his mind won't come online.

The intense interest in the dark eyes. Color? Uncertain, John lets it go. Dark brown? Perhaps, black?

Both his headache and his blurred vision serve to keep his gaze narrowed. He shakes his head slightly, impatient to have his vision clear. The movement causes him to wince and he doesn't repeat the experiment.

The man smiles. "With us at last, Doctor Watson?"

John's heart rate quickens.

 _The slight figure. The voice. Impossible. Molly's boyfriend? What was his name? Jim. That was it. Jim … something. Harmless, forgettable, gay Jim?_ He's  _the one who kidnapped me?_

In answer to John's confused thoughts, the trim figure straightens slightly, then dips his head with a sly grin. It's a mockery of a bow. He looks up at John deliberately from under dark lashes.

"James Moriarty. Hello." he says. He wiggles fingers at John and the ex-soldier would swear on a stack of Bibles that the voice holds sincere amusement.

It can't be. Jim? Molly's Jim. Wait. If Moriarty is here ...

"Molly," John says. Or tries to. The name comes out as a harsh croak. His voice is wrecked and his throat is as dry as if it's been roughened with sandpaper. He tries to swallow and winces.

"Excuse me? Barely heard that. Molly? Oh, she's undamaged and altogether, shall we say,  _not_  in the know," the other man says. He tilts his head, small sparrow regarding an interesting insect. His dark eyes spark.

"Were you worried about our Miss Hooper? And in your current predicament? Adorable. I assure you, she's fine. Oh, other than waiting around the theater for her erstwhile boyfriend." He consults a slim watch and shakes his head. "Whom, I am afraid, is now a confirmed no-show."

Moriarty shrugs. "Aw, well. Another evening spent with feline companionship and an Austin novel, I'm afraid. Sucks to be Molly. But no. No, no, no. She's quite unharmed."

The man's odd sing song intonations bother John more than the ex-soldier is ready to admit.

Moriarty looks at John with intent. The former soldier blinks and is happy to note his vision seems to clear a bit. The little man seems genuinely pleased with something and John cannot possibly fathom what it is.

His aching head wrestles with his situation as his swollen wrists strain against their bonds. Handcuffs? Metal, yes. But the cold metal is too wide to be standard cuffs. John stops tensing his hands and allows his wrists to go slack. What energy he can muster, he will undoubtedly need soon enough.

He takes another cautious deep breath, in an aim to self-medicate. Good. His stomach has settled a bit. He lifts his gaze to the man in front of him. If James Moriarty is at all affected by the cold blue stare that has had insurgents piss in their pants, he doesn't show it.

Moriarty simply shrugs.

John blinks at the movement and his vision clears a bit more. The suit is definitely designer. Dark blue. Bespoke. Not a word he was familiar with before he began co-habiting with a certain consulting detective. Hell, Moriarty's haircut alone probably cost double John's weekly salary. He files this all away in case Sherlock asks. That is, assuming he survives the night.

"I really must apologise, Doctor Watson. You had other plans this evening, albeit predictable and just a tad on the boring side. However, I suspect they did not include being drugged unconscious and kidnapped off the streets of London."

Moriarty shrugs again, a mere lift of the slim shoulders.

"What is that truly pedestrian phrase? Oh, yes. Shite happens."

_Yes, I had other plans, you little shite. I was heading to my … Oh. God._

_Sarah._

His thoughts must show all too clearly, as Moriarty shakes his head. The smile has morphed into a thin-lipped grimace.

"Ever the gentleman. Doctor Sawyer is quite unharmed, Doctor Watson. Although I cannot speak for her displeasure at being ignored. And no phone call, either. Tsk, tsk. Oh!"

He claps his hands. John flinches at the sudden movement.

"I have it. Perhaps the ladies could form a support group, my Doctor Hooper and your Doctor Sawyer. Doctors stood up by brilliant consulting criminals and washed up ex-soldiers." He smiles and John catches a glimpse of white teeth. "You never know. Could catch on."

John's eyes narrow.  _Fucking bastard._

"Neither of the young women in question play any part in my plans, other than Miss Hooper, and she's served her purpose. But kudos to you, Doctor Watson, for thinking first of the fair damsels in our little fairy tale."

"Fairy tale." His voice is a harsh croak and the simple act of speaking hurts.

Fantastic.

If it is not enough he's chased after Sherlock while the consulting detective solved the damn pips, he's had to put up with Sherlock's supposition that the person responsible, the very man who stands in front of him now, is apparently as brilliant and easily bored as his flatmate.

And as insane.

That was Sherlock's construct.

And here stands the reality. In the flesh.

Moriarty cocks his head at John.

"Exactly. And every fairy tale requires a good old-fashioned villain, right?"

Moriarty tilts his head to the other side and John hears the faint crick as neck muscles pop. Then the master criminal smiles again, his hands in the pockets of his tailored jacket.

The smile never reaches his dark eyes.

"But I'm remiss. How's the head? All achy? I do apologise for the enthusiasm of my men. There are times I have to rein them in. You'll feel right as rain soon enough. Promise."

Eyes narrowed, James Moriarty considers John. John feels his skin prickle under the intense scrutiny.

"We really didn't have much of a chance to talk, did we? No matter. You were kind enough to acknowledge my existence, whereas Sherlock…phew! He's something of a prat, your boyfriend, isn't he?"

 _He's not my boyfriend,_  John says. And then realizes in horror he hasn't said the words aloud. His throat is so dry it causes him pain and his brain isn't working right. His thoughts are still muddled. Whatever they shot him up with in that damned car isn't wearing off near fast enough and John temporarily wonders if he has been permanently affected.

But then common sense takes over. He was able to speak a few words just moments ago. He's been drugged. His throat is dry, his head feels like the back end of nowhere and his voice is shit. Again, drugged. He's a doctor. He recognises the signs. Whatever this is will wear off.

In the meantime, dear Lord, he would sell his soul for a drink of cold water.

He takes a deep breath and concentrates on the idiot in front of him.

Data. Facts. He can hear Sherlock in his head.  _Get me data, John. I cannot make bricks without clay._

He finds the imaginary voice comforting, although bossy. Else he'd tell the lanky git to get the hell out of his head.

After first pointing out that the very master criminal he has been pursuing stood two feet away and Sherlock never suspected it.

He wonders how the detective will take the news.

Moriarty claps his hands again, then rubs the palms together. John's eyes focus as he takes in the man's odd mannerisms. Sherlock will want to know it all later.  _If I get the opportunity to tell him._

He tries not to think about that for the moment.

"Now then, Doctor Watson. Or John. _May_ I call you John?"

_Hell, no._

Moriarty smiles. John has seen sharks at the London aquarium with warmer smiles.

"Shall we begin?"

His dark eyes rake over John's bound form. The ex-soldier feels naked, exposed. Close to the feeling he experiences when Sherlock glances at him and deduces every thought he's had for the past 24 hours.

He coughs again, his lungs trying to rid themselves of the remnants of the drug. He desperately needs water.

Well, he's still alive. And with all of his appendages, so far. Can't hurt to ask.

Nothing ventured and all that.

"Water?" John whispers.

"Ooo, Where  _are_  my manners?" Jim whirls to the table behind him and picks up a carafe of clear liquid John did not notice earlier. He pours it into a small plastic cup and holds it out to John. Then grins and shakes his head as if he just realises that the doctor's hands are bound behind him.

"Oops!"

Jim comes close to John and says, "I'll be mother, shall I?" Then bends over to hold the cup to John's lips.

John hates that the man is so close. He hates that the dark eyes – he can see now that they are near black – stare into his and that he can count the evening's stubble on the small chin. This close, he can smell the man's after shave. This scent is overly sweet. Cloying. And as far away from Sherlock's familiar spicy scent as possible.

At the sudden thought of the detective, John's chest aches.

_Sherlock._

The plastic rim of the cup tips against his mouth and John feels his gorge rise as Moriarty's fingertips brush against his dry lips. But his throat feels like the floor of his company jeep. He swallows the cold water, as it's offered.

"There's a good lad. More?"

Fuck.

_Just drink it. You might not get more for a while._

John shuts his eyes and takes a second hasty swallow. Too close. The idiot is too damn close. A second scent washes over John as he shakes his head and tries to pull back in his bonds. Shampoo? This scent is disturbingly familiar?

 _For fuck's sake. It's the exact same smell as Sherlock's bloody expensive shampoo. Same. Exact. Scent_.

Under other circumstances, John might find this fact extremely funny.

For some reason, it terrifies him more than anything that has happened this evening.

Moriarty pulls back with the glass and tilts his head quizzically.

"Aw, tummy still a bit queasy? Sorry. We'll hold this for later." He turns to set the glass down on the table. Then he turns to face John and leans back against the table, his hands gripping the edges.

"Now then, John, my precious, what shall we talk about?" He bends his head slightly in order to look John more or less directly in the eye. "Ideas? Preferred topics of discussion?"

_How about the way I am going to snap your skinny little neck for you first chance I get?_

John coughs once, twice, then shakes his sandy head.

"What – " his voice is nearly back, rough but back.

"What am I doing here?"

Jim clucks his tongue at John, clearly disappointed. "John, John. Just when I had hopes for you. You know what you're doing here, my dear Doctor. You're nowhere near as bright as our Mr. Holmes, but you've been right at his side as he dances around London, solving my little puzzles. You're my next – my  _last_ pip, as it were."

Jim leans in and John tries not to flinch as the smell of peppermint washes over him. "Doesn't that make you feel  _ **so**_ special? It should."

John frowns at the childish intonations and the seemingly innocuous conversation. But this man has had Sherlock dancing on a string for days and he's not fooled one bit by Moriarty's act.

_Give this man nothing._

"Just wanted to hear you say it," John says out loud.

His voice is back but his response comes out as a low growl and Moriarty raises an eyebrow.

"Bit testy? Well, I can't say I –" he leans over and shouts in John's face "BLAME YOU!"

John startles, a frown line between his dark blue eyes.

This man is literally insane.

Jim sighs and straightens, his hands in his pockets. John now thinks of it as his default posture. He wishes it weren't so close to Sherlock's.

_Sherlock._

Has Moriarty already texted the detective about John? Is John even meant to survive this night?

It's possible that Sherlock has no idea about John's predicament – yet.

John wonders how long before the detective even notices he is missing.  _Maybe he will never notice until it's much too late. I told him I was going to Sarah's, after all._

"Cat got your tongue, Doctor Watson? I have oodles of questions to ask. Let's see, where to begin? Let's start with the obvious, shall we?"

_Go ahead and ask Sherlock's plans. You'll get nothing. Better just shoot me and be done with it, you loon._

John tries to straighten in his bonds. The pain in his arms and hands make him wince.

He tries to mentally and emotionally prepare himself to be shot or blown to hell and back. He can do this. He can.

He can do more, he will do more, if it will save Sherlock.

Jim glances at John, obviously amused. John wonders if his thoughts show so clearly on his face. Or if Moriarty is as good as Sherlock is at deducing his thoughts.

The criminal straightens up and begins to walk slowly around John. John tries to turn his head in order to keep the mad man in his sight, but there is still a hot pain in the side of his neck and his neck muscles cramp at the effort.

He sighs and drops his aching head.

Jim is at his left now and John feels the merest ghost of breath against his cheek. The other man leans in. When the voice comes, it's an intimate whisper, directly in his left ear. John tries not to gag at the cool breath against his cheek. Moriarty smells of peppermint mouthwash. And Irish Breakfast tea.

The two make for a stomach-churning combination and John tries not to flinch at the close contact.

"Do you ever stop to think, Doctor Watson, just exactly why Sherlock keeps you around? I do. Admittedly, it's been a bit silly buggers. Passes the odd moment now and then. Nothing overly taxing, I assure you. But when I am supremely bored with life, when Sherlock is being just a bit  _slow_ on the uptake, I ask myself, exactly  _where_ does our good Doctor John Watson fit in to Mr. Holmes' life?"

_Same question I ask myself._

Moriarty straightens. "Puzzles the hell out of me, John. Tell me, do you feel the same way? No. Don't tell me. I can see that you do."

_Nearly every day. Then he looks at me … when the current puzzle isn't enough of a distraction … he looks at me with those damn grey-green eyes, as if he cares. As if I'm something pretty marvelous. As if I'm a puzzle to unravel … his and his alone._

_And I don't know what the hell to do with that._

John says nothing. He controls his breathing and works at tensing and relaxing the muscles in his legs, thighs and feet, in order to bring some circulation back into his bound limbs. He leaves his hands limp as Moriarty is nearly behind him now and would easily see his movements and might put a stop to them. He flexes his stomach muscles.

Anything, any movements at all that will help bring his muscles back online. Give him something to focus on other than the blithering idiot who stands next to him.

_Give nothing away. Keep at it. Listen. Listen, for God's sake._

_If Moriarty means to kill him this night, how long before Sherlock finds his body? But that cannot be the plan, right? All the other hostages had a chance. As long as Sherlock solves the mystery, he has a chance._

_And if he dies tonight, just how pissed off will Sherlock be when he finds his blogger's dead body?_

John tries not to think of the old woman. He tries not to think of the look of utter devastation on Sherlock's face when he realised he had failed. And someone else paid the forfeit.

_If I die, will he give my corpse the same detached attention he gives all the others? Will it mean more to him, because it's me? Will Molly Hooper do his autopsy? God, he hopes not. He hopes Lestrade would insist that someone else take care of it._

Sweet Jesus, he needs to get a grip. The damn drug hasn't worn off nearly as much as he hoped. John feels small beads of sweat pop out on his hairline.

"You're just a bit too introspective, John. I like my chosen victims to at least pretend to show interest."

At that, Moriarty snakes his fingers onto John's scalp, gathers a quick handful of soft hair - and yanks. Hard.

At the sudden pain, John winces. He stops short of gasping.

_Deep breaths. Flex. Release. Be ready._

"Do me the courtesy, Doctor Watson, of extending a comment now and then. It's polite and shows you're invested in the conversation. Did your mother never teach you manners?"

John takes a breath. "At least I had a mother," he mutters.

It's a mistake. He knows it's a mistake the minute the words leave his mouth.

Moriarty's slim fingers dig into John's scalp, scratching the skin. His head is jerked back even further, a fact he didn't think possible.

It's agony. John feels the muscles in his neck pop. He tries to relax but his neck and shoulders begin to shake uncontrollably. The strain is nearly unbearable.

"Look at me, Doctor Watson."

Impossibly, his head jerks backward even more.

"Now," the voice growls into his closest ear.

John opens his eyes and stares into the dark ones, upside down, a scant few inches from his own. If the fuck intends to pull his hair out by the roots – or break his neck - he's doing a damn good job. In his current bound position, his chest aches and the pain in John's head flares. Bolts of agony shoot through his forehead.

He can't move.

He's going to be sick.

Mad dark eyes stare into incensed blue ones. Moriarty gives John's tawny head a determined shake.

"Are you listening to me, John?"

The ex-soldier gasps. "You have my undivided attention."

"Most excellent, Doctor Watson."

He releases John's hair and the soldier tilts his head forward in sudden relief.

Moriarty gives John's head a pat. Dog owner petting his dog.

"Where were we? Oh yes. Do pay attention, my dear. Daddy has questions. Try to formulate interesting responses."

He seems not to notice as John tilts his head gingerly from one side to the other, in a bid to work out the pain.

_Talk all you want, you loon. In fact, keep talking. All night, if possible._

Sherlock is bound to notice something's amiss sooner or later. Maybe...just maybe...Sarah tried calling the detective to report John's absence. Not likely. But it's something to think about.

More likely, she's just pissed.

Jim moves around him and John tries not to tense up. He stares ahead at the metal table with its lone carafe of water and plastic cup. There's something else that lays there. Small. Black. John can't make it out. But he has a bad feeling about it.

He thinks again of the old woman.  _I don't even know her name._   _I don't know any of their_   _names, including the little boy's. And Sherlock never bothered to ask. Because their names were unimportant to the puzzle._

_Bet Greg Lestrade knows, though._

At the thought of the little boy, John's gaze turns cold.  _This bastard was going to blow a kid sky high in order to play a damn ruddy game with Sherlock Holmes. A few moments of terror and that kid's life is going to be hell for years to come. Years of nightmares, waking up in the dark, alone and screaming. Hope his folks get him to someone and fast._

John is very familiar with waking up in the dark, alone and screaming.

_Should have walked away when Sherlock asked if caring was going to save them. Should have. Didn't. I can't walk away from him. I killed for him and I'd do it again in a heartbeat. I'll kill this daft bugger, the first chance I get, that's for sure. If I die here, tonight. Well, that's fine. But I'm taking this mongrel with me._

He'll do anything, risk anything, to keep this bastard away from Sherlock _._ But he's beginning to wonder if he'll get the opportunity.

"How's the injection site, John? Still stings, I bet." Jim clucks his tongue. John ignores him.

He and his damn feelings for his bloody flatmate. He can't seem to turn them off. Even here, now.

_And this is where your feelings, your 'caring lark' get you, Johnny boy. Right here. In this damned chair. With another madman walking around, spouting nonsense._

_Stop the pity party. Pay attention. Sherlock needs you to pay attention._

Moriarty trails one languid hand over the back of John's neck, then insinuates a fingertip under his shirt and tugs it sideways. John shudders at the intimacy of the contact. He struggles to keep his breathing even.

The soft voice is too bloody close by far and John's hackles would rise, if he had them.

"Hmm. Quite the nasty bruise here. I really should have a word with my people. But then," he lets John's shirt go, "I imagine you did put up a bit of a fight. It's what soldiers do, am I right?"

Moriarty leans in. "Should I call you Captain Watson, rather than Doctor Watson? I should have asked, rather than assumed. Aw, well. No matter. Where were we? Oh, yes. The enthusiasm of my men."

_I'll show you Captain Watson, you utter freak of nature. Just keep talking. Every minute gives Sherlock more time._

Moriarty jerks John's shirt collar again with a sudden vicious yank, nearly ripping the worn cotton, and most deliberately presses his thumb to the injection site.

He keeps pressing. Hard.

John winces, but keeps his eyesight front and center.

_I am going to blow this man's head off. And I'm going to do it for myself, not for Sherlock. Not for the other victims. Just for me. And that little kid._

The thumb relents and John grunts with relief.

Now the hated voice with its strange intonation is in his right ear. John can't help comparing the mad bugger's voice with its odd sing song to Sherlock's honeyed baritone, which he would give anything to hear right now.

"You know, John, I've watched the both of you together for some time now. And it has puzzled me no end just exactly what our boy sees in you? I mean, we all have to have our hobbies, our little distractions, Sherlock as much as the next man. But, seriously, John. A former soldier, with PTSD and a limp?"

Jim straightens and reaches out to brush along John's hair. His fingertips linger over the curve of John's ear. Jim's fingertips are cold steel.

_And when in hell did he start thinking of him as Jim?_

John steels himself not to cringe. He does not rise to the bait but continues to stare straight ahead and lets Moriarty's words wash over him.

What  _is_ the small black object just slightly behind the water glass? He frowns as he tries to ID it.

"But maybe it's the blonde hair, hmm? Could it be my favorite consulting detective has a thing for golden hair and blue eyes, no matter the rest of it?"

 _My detective._ John clinches his teeth and remains silent.

_Do not react to anything this piece of shit says. Or does._

Moriarty is at his side. John feels the huff of air against his cheek.

"Or is it the uniform? They say all the ladies love a man in uniform. Do you haul it out of mothballs and wear it around the flat, Johnny boy? Medals, too? How many are there in that box you keep hidden from Sherlock, John? Two? Three? You're quite Queen and Country, you know. I imagine he finds that adorable. As do I."

 _Four, actually. And how in bloody hell does he know about Granda's box?*_ The sickening thought that the madman has actually been inside 221B causes his jaw muscles to tense. He swallows several times in an effort to relax.

 _Show some sense, John_ , the Sherlock voice in his head drawls.  _Your military career is easily researched, after all._ _As for the box, he's_ _guessing. Give him nothing._

A slow murderous intent rises as Moriarty keeps taunting him.  _I will kill this idiot rather than let him have a chance at Sherlock._

Meanwhile, do not rise to his bait. Sooner or later, he has to release him, if only to wire him to explode, as he did with the other hostages.

_Be ready._

John begins to plan. Up until now, he has made few responses to Moriarty, preferring to let his captor do all the talking. Maybe it's time he joins in the conversation, useless and crazed as it is.

James Moriarty is, of course, as mad as a hatter. And most probably a genius, as Sherlock has commented.

But that's okay. John knows genius. And madness. He lives with it on a daily basis.

He clears his throat and adopts a casual tone of voice. Then tilts his head slightly in an attempt to bring the mad man into sight.

"Aw, James … may I call you Jim? You might want to come round here where I can see you. Makes it a hell of a lot easier to keep up a conversation."

And then Moriarty is there. Close. Too close.

He leans in and John curses as a small tongue swipes sideways across his right cheek.

"What the bloody fuck!"

He recoils and his hands clench in their bonds. His stomach churns.

_Dead. And before the night is out._

John begins to plan as his brain, finally, seems to come back online.

Moriarty laughs. "Oh, Johnny boy. I just had to find out, you know? Besides, we have a few hours to kill yet, before my rendezvous with Sherly."

"Sherly," John mutters.

"Too familiar? Excuse me, Sherlock, I meant, of course. But how to make the time pass more pleasantly before our little meeting? I abhor being bored, don't you?"

_Sherlock swivels in Lestrade's chair. Steeples his long fingers in front of his lips. "I can't be the only one who gets bored."_

John shakes his head slightly at the vivid images. Not for the first time, he wishes he has Sherlock's ability to delete things.

_Wait. What did the crazed fuck just say? "...before our little meeting..."._

He's already contacted Sherlock? Does that mean that Sherlock is aware that John is the fifth pip? Or has that not happened yet?

Jim is back in John's vision now. He stands in front of John and the two men stare at each other. John does his best to ignore the cooling wetness on his cheek and keeps his eyes fixed on the criminal.

No murderous psychopath is going to get to him. He's faced down the Taliban.

_But you lost that battle, John._

"You are not allowed to take up Sherlock's time in this manner, John. I know you're just a pet and can't really help it. I mean, cute and all, I'll give you that. And I've no doubt, under certain circumstances, distracting. But Sherlock Holmes is meant for greater things. You have to see that I cannot allow his momentary interest in you to hinder him from our little game."

Momentary interest.

 _And there it is,_  John thinks. All of his inner doubts in a nutshell. It's taken a madman to point out to him what he's known all along. John Watson is not good enough for Sherlock Holmes. He'll never be good enough. Should their relationship ever actually evolve into something more than flatmates … he'll never be more than a temporary distraction, at best.

_If even Moriarty can see it..._

Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Moriarty smiles sadly.

"Oh John. Have things been as bad as all that? It's clear I've been a bit lacking in the uptake." He shakes his head and actually "tsks" at John.

"It's not Sherlock, John boy, it's you. Gone and fallen for our Consulting Detective, have we? And Sherlock hasn't reciprocated your feelings? Still holding out hope?"

He leans back, his palms flat on the table top behind him, and crosses his ankles.

"Or has that ship sailed, John?"

"Fuck right off with that," John growls, momentarily forgetting his determination not to respond to anything this lunatic throws at him.

"Sorry, John. No can do. But, hold on a mo'."

Moriarty reaches into his pocket and withdraws a slim mobile phone. He holds it up. Silent, John looks back at him.

_What basket of monkeys has he fallen into?_

"Just a quick one, John. Oh, don't look like that. It's not for Sherlock. No, no, no. That will come later. This one's for my personal gallery. No worries, my dear. You're in good company."

John hears the faint click, then Moriarty drops the mobile on the table surface behind him. He regards John with nearly sympathetic interest.

"How do you feel now, John? Better? Eyesight cleared up? Headache nearly gone? I imagine your hands and wrists are all tingly. Pity. Can't be helped, though."

Jim leans in to John and takes a deliberate sniff. John glares at him.

"I must say, John. I think you've been in that charming getup for more than one dance. We must do something about that shortly."

Jim tilts his head at John. "Speaking of bathing, John, can you swim?"

_No._

"Going to drop me in the Thames, then?" John says. The longer he plays along, the longer he gives Sherlock to figure out what's what. That is, if Moriarty hasn't already called him.

And if Moriarty  _hasn't_  contacted Sherlock, as he is beginning to suspect, well -

John's the one who told him he was going to Sarah's, that he wouldn't be in for tea. The detective will probably make the logical assumption that John plans on spending the night. Sherlock will know nothing of John's capture until he's wired for sound.

And rigged to explode.

Until Moriarty's made the call to the pink phone. And that may not have occurred yet.

Maybe. Just maybe, if he keeps Jim talking … if he can be enough of a diversion, if he can make Jim actually lose his temper, he might injure John – or kill him outright.

And that's the end of the fifth pip. He'd have to find another, then, right?

John tries to dispassionately consider whether that would be better or worse for Sherlock. Most definitely worse for whoever Jim goes after next.

_It's not going to do a whole hella' lot for me, either._

No. He has to hang in there. For Sherlock's sake.

"Oh, John. John. Give me credit for more imagination than that, dear boy. The Thames? On such a freezing night? You might catch your **death**!" He shouts the last word at John and John's eyes widen.

_Barking._

John takes a breath. Another.

_Okay then. Here goes nothing._

He tilts his head at Moriarty with interest, in an attempt to mimic the criminal's own body movements.

John chooses his words carefully, speaks slowly, in a serious tone of voice, as if imparting vital information.

"You know, Jim, what we would put on your chart if you were brought into my ward?"

The black eyes narrow at John's words. He watches as the criminal's hands clench in the pockets of his trousers.

"James Moriarty. BSC."

John smiles winningly at the other man.

"That stands for Bat. Shite. Crazy. Just in case you're unfamiliar with Army medical terminology, Jim."

The movement is lightning fast and John sees it coming but has no time to brace himself. The blow rocks his aching head. A red haze clouds his vision and he shuts his eyes against the pain. The second blow follows immediately after and catches him on the other side of his skull. This time, John doesn't even try to breathe through it.

He just manages to lean to the side before he heaves his stomach contents onto the cement floor.

Then the criminal leans over him, as the rigid fingers of his hand dig into John's thigh, directly over the sight of the phantom pain that kept John limping, in agony, for months. John's stomach muscles clench in agony.

"Someone really needs to teach you some manners, Doctor Watson," Jim says coldly.

John coughs to clear his throat, then lifts his head. The pain in his skull has awakened and all he can do is squint through the agony at the mad man in front of him.

"You and whose army?" he says grimly.

James Moriarty smirks. "Funny you should bring that up, John."

His phone is in his hand before John registers the event. The criminal's nimble fingers fly over the keypad. Then he drops the phone in his pocket and regards John. "I'm afraid you're no longer a distraction, Doctor Watson. And I have more pressing engagements."

Somewhere to his far side, just out of his range of vision, a door opens. John registers the sound of footsteps. Not quiet ones, either. Boots. Someone else has entered the room.

_Terrific._

The pain in his skull reaches a crescendo and John's head reels. At the same time, he feels himself begin to lose consciousness again. He fights it for all he's worth.

_Stay awake, for fuck's sake. Stay aware._

"You are beginning to bore me, Doctor Watson. And I abhor being bored."

He raises his voice and speaks over John's drooping head.

"Sebastian? Any ideas?"

"You know me, Jim. Always got ideas."

"Excellent. He's all yours, until I need him again."

John's eyes widen at the smoker's timbre. It's the same individual who sat in the front seat of the car that picked him up off the street. The same rough voice that he last heard in a bombed out concrete shelter, standing over them all. Over Amber.

The same voice he expected to go to his grave hearing.

Not possible. No.

_But a brilliant man once told him, once you eliminate the impossible ..._

Someone leans in. The large frame effectively blocks off Moriarty from his swimming vision.

"Captain John H. Watson. Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Long time no see."

That voice. He last heard it over a year ago. No, longer than that.

" _Kandaharry."_

The man from Kandahar. The very same individual John swore to track and kill, first chance he got.

John raises his aching head. He'll be damned if he loses consciousness in front of this traitorous swine.

He opens his eyes to stare into the murderous blue gaze he thought to never see this side of hell again.

"Moran."

His voice comes out as a pained croak and he hates that. Hates showing any sign of weakness in front of this man.

Scratch that. Not man. Monster.

Moran grins. "Excellent. I was afraid Jim had gotten a bit carried away. He does that, at times."

John registers the movement as Moriarty walks to the door and out of John's vision. He tosses his phrases out with a clear ring.

"Enjoy yourself, my dear. But remember – I need him intact."

Jim puts his hand on the door handle. "And nothing must show."

His tone of voice is bored. He could be discussing the washing up.

The door shuts behind him.

John is left alone with the traitor of Kandahar.

The two men stare into each other's eyes with murderous hatred.

Moran smiles. He takes out a knife, military issue, then leans against the table and begins to idly clean his fingernails with the tip of the blade. He addresses John in the same rough tones that filled John's nightmares for months.

"Jim has his moments, but frankly, I'd thought he'd never leave," he says.

"Cracking," John whispers.

**OooOooO**

Author's Notes: * John was awarded five medals, as mentioned in THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF JOHN WATSON. The fifth, after he and Sherlock had been together as a couple for a while. At the time of this chapter's remembered occurrence, he had four.

All Thanks go to my wonderful friend and beta: SHERLOCK'SSCARF, who took on the daunting task of overseeing 10,000 words at the eleventh hour when this chapter originally posted elsewhere.  Any remaining errors are my own.

If she hadn't stayed with me through thick and thin, through the numerous lengthy emails, the phone and text bull sessions, the depression and subsequent apathy, this chapter would not have happened at all. Thank you, Sweetheart! You are truly amazing. And if you haven't read her latest updates for A HOLE IN THE WORLD, please go read now and please let her know what you think.

I have other Thanks but they are waiting for Ch. 19.

A few readers have contacted me to ask: Why? Why the pool scene, why now, with all that John and Sherlock have going on, why even go there? When Ch. 19 posts, I hope that your questions are answered.

Thank you for hanging in there with me, as I worked through some truly daunting depression and the after effects.

'sky'


	19. Chapter 19

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One: ACCLAMATIONS**

**Ch. 19**

**Better the Devil You Know, Part I**

**WARNINGS: Extreme Language. Violence. Torture. Physical restraint and abuse. References to non-con drug use. Fleeting reference to child abuse (in the past.) References to murder and attempted murder. Memories of war. Psychological counseling session. If any of these are a trigger for you, please skip this one. I would never fault you for it.**

**OooOooO**

"If you are silent about your pain, they'll kill you and say you enjoyed it."  
― Zora Neale Hurston

"Excruciating agony makes me cranky."  
― Brandon Mull,  _Secrets of the Dragon Sanctuary_

**OooOooO**

A moment's silence, then Moran looks up from the knife tip. His blue eyes are expressionless. They betray nothing, as his gaze slowly travels over John's body. At the cool perusal, John straightens his spine until he feels the cool metal of the chair press back against his aching shoulders. A trickle of icy sweat makes its way down his back. He can feel the damp patch as he presses against the chair.

He'd forgotten how large Sebastian Moran is. The man is six feet four, if he's an inch, and he carries far more weight on his tall frame than either of the Holmes brothers. The muscles of his upper arms strain against the short sleeves of the simple tee. Dark cotton is tucked into dark jeans, over a taut stomach, utterly devoid of fat. As Moran leans against the table's edge, his muscled thighs bulge against the jeans material. It's obvious that despite being court-martialed out of the Army some years ago, the mercenary has kept in fighting trim.

John fights a ridiculous urge to take in air, to expand his chest in order to appear larger. Instead, he remains still, his posture rigid. Only his left fist clenches, then releases, over and over again, behind his back. His wrists are tense, the cold metal of their restraints unforgiving.

Moran studies John. The barest of smiles plays around his lips. John stares back, his dark blue eyes narrowed.

"You know, Watson, this is getting to be a habit. You weren't looking too good the last time I saw you. And now here you are."

At the half-remembered graveled tones, John's stomach muscles clench. His vocal cords ache and he swallows against a growing obstruction in his larynx.

"Yeah? Well you should know, you back-stabbing son of a bitch."

Moran grins. "Aw, John, is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Let me stand and you'll see how I greet a traitor," John growls.

Moran leans back and crosses his ankles. His fingernails flick over the razor edge of the knife blade. The tiny sound is grating. John's eyes are drawn to the Army-issue weapon. Its black surface is non-reflective but the edges of the serrated blade glint as Moran twists it slowly in his grasp.

John looks away from the murderous blade to the man himself. The last time he encountered Colonel Moran, John was in pain, injured, and sitting trussed up in the ruins of a concrete building, while he slowly watched one of his people die an agonizing death. Moran had just shot one of John's young doctors. Captain John H. Watson, RAMC, vowed at that time to kill the son of a bitch, first chance he got.

That was in a bombed out shelter, years and another continent away. Before the sniper bullet that nearly ended his life. Before Sherlock.

Now, with the same emotionless detachment Moran showed him, John's gaze rakes over the mercenary.

Sebastian Moran's face is still lean, his nose narrow. Tanned skin stretches tightly over the musculature of his skull and chiseled cheekbones. The dark stubble tells John it's been several hours since the mercenary's square jaw last saw a razor. At John's continued scrutiny, the cruel lips purse, as if they have tasted something sour, then compress into a rigid line.

Moran's hair is still the same sun-streaked brown, a bit longer than John remembers. John supposes the extra length serves to let the ex-Colonel blend into the populace. A man with a high and tight is more liable to stand out from the crowd, more likely to be remembered.

The last time John encountered Moran, the Colonel's eyes were hidden by dark glasses, as were his own, to protect already overworked pupils from the cruel Afghan sun. Exposed now, naked without their usual camouflage, Moran's eyes remain the murky blue of a dead calm sea. He looks at John with the same expression a shark regards a small fish – as if the outcome is already certain.

His gruff voice, (smoker's voice, John notes) is far from Moriarty's higher, sing-song tones. Moran has not lost his soldier's voice or bearing. Here is a man, a monster, used to being obeyed.

"Actually, I'm quite comfortable where I am."

"Can't say the same," John says.

"Wish I could help you there, Watson. But I'm afraid Jim insists that you stay put until the time comes."

"Yeah? And just when will -"

The words stick and John tries to clear his throat, but a mild coughing fit ensues. He tries not to pull against his restraints but fails miserably. Although his head is much clearer, there's a small pain in his chest and his mouth and throat are desert dry. The fit ends and John shakes his head slightly, and then takes a few cautious breaths.

The water Moriarty gave him seems hours in the past, rather than just a few minutes. He knows he'll get no such concession from Moran and he has no intention of asking. The thought of the other man coming anywhere near him sets his pulse racing.

"Okay, there?"

Moran is directly in front of John before the doctor can blink. For a big man, Moran's movements are swift. He bends to peer into John's dark eyes.

"Out of it yet? Shit, don't go and pass out on me again, Watson. We're just getting started."

Before John can recoil, Moran reaches out with the knife. A gleaming blur of motion and the top button of John's checked shirt goes flying. Moran uses the knife edge to nudge aside the shirt. A quick flick of his wrist, and John feels the kiss of the blade tip against his shoulder, just right of the thickened scar tissue. Moran has used the exquisitely honed tip to slice through his vest.

The soft cotton of the under garment falls away and cold air assails his skin. John pulls back as far as he is able, but the metal chair is unrelenting. He tries to put as much space between him and the other man as possible, but the movement only serves to help bare his left shoulder and its tracks of white scar tissue. The damaged skin stands out in the glare of the overhead lights. Shining white lines crisscross in grid lines, a map of chaos overlain against the warm skin of John's shoulder.

Moran whistles.

"They really did a number on you, didn't they, Watson? Looks like a bout of infection set in, after. Nasty stuff."

John doesn't bother to reply. Days and nights of fighting the pain of a near shattered shoulder, hasty reconstructive surgery, followed almost immediately by a raging infection and fever and the subsequent loss of his life's vocation have been shoved into a steel box, covered round with iron bands and buried in the farthest reaches of his mind. Even Colonel Sebastian Moran cannot get him to break those bands.

John's too busy being repulsed by Moran's hulking presence in his personal space to rise to Moran's gibes.

Moran leans in. His eyes are inches from John's.

The two former soldiers stare murder at each other.

"You know, Watson, I always thought I'd be the one to put a bullet in you. Too bad someone else beat me to it."

He lifts his hand and before John can react, Moran grunts. "I can't fathom how you even survived a shot to the left shoulder, Watson. You are some bad ass, you know that? Hey, let me know if this hurts."

Moran presses the knife tip into the scar tissue and John's breath catches. Although the scar tissue left by infection looks dead, he still has feeling there. He feels the rub of his vest and shirt against the wound and tends to wear worn cotton to minimize the constant drag across ruined skin. He feels the ache of cold weather, impending rain and the pull of tired muscles, which often seize with exhaustion after hours of chasing around London with Sherlock.

Sometime the pain is relentless. Despite his efforts at stoicism, Sherlock usually notices John's discomfort. These are the times the detective is particularly solicitous of his blogger, and will often pay for warm cab rides home, followed by his firm insistence that John takes his pain meds and gets the first hot shower.

But this is different from aches brought on by cold weather or strained muscles. This is deliberate torture and Moran makes no bones about it. The murderous blade presses slowly inward, past the top layer of cicatrix and John bites back a cry as he feels the steel bite into living tissue. Moran withdraws the knife just as slowly. Warm blood wells up and chases the shining tip outward.

Unbidden, tears fill John's eyes. He doesn't even try to hide them. He can't, at any rate.

"Fuc-"

Moran's left hand slams John's head back against the chair, as he covers the doctor's mouth with his large palm, effectively cutting off the doctor's curse. He presses inward, hard. His large hand forces John's teeth against his lips, forestalling the doctor's attempt to bite at the calloused skin. His right hand lifts to encircle John's throat.

He begins to squeeze and John wonders if the mercenary intends to break the hyoid bone. For the first time John feels real fear, as opposed to the overwhelming rage that has engulfed him since Moran entered his prison room. All thoughts of Moriarty and his sick game with Sherlock Holmes have momentarily fled his mind.

There is only Moran.

John struggles against Moran's arm and muscled chest, to no avail. His vision spikes as his lungs scream for air.

Relentless in his pressure on John's throat, the mercenary leans in, his mouth against the trapped doctor's cheek. Moran speaks slowly, in a gruff whisper, interrogator to prisoner. John's eyes widen and he winces against the deliberate push against his pain-wracked body. The smell of stale cigarette smoke assails his nostrils.

"I know you're the one who put the wind up Sholto, you little cunt...you or one of your bunch. I had a nice little setup going,  _Captain_ Watson, before it went balls up. Supply. Demand. Plenty of runners. Transportation. Drugs? Ammo? You name it, I had access."

John bites back a cry as Moran scrapes the knife edge against his torn skin, then holds it up in front of the doctor's eyes. Red liquid glints along the tip and drips downward as it slides along the jagged edge. Moran's lips twitch. He lowers his hand and John gasps for breath.

"Sweet doesn't begin to describe it. Another year, two, and my retirement was assured. I was one stinking tour of duty away from living the high life in some cozy South American country where they've never heard of me or the shit storm of Afghanistan. Forget the Army's damned pension. I was set, Watson. Set!"

Moran's breath pushes against John's cheek. The doctor squirms in his grasp but Moran digs in with the knife again and John doesn't even try to stifle his groans. Pain lances through his shoulder. It races like wild fire across his upper arm and chest, leaving lacerated nerve-endings in its wake. John tries to hold his breath, but it whistles out between his teeth, as tears force their way from his half-closed eyelids.

His blood seeps down his chest and soaks into the worn cotton of his shirt. It leaves a sticky trail in its wake that feels warm against his clammy skin. The opened wound begins to ache and John's eyes widen as the pain hits him full force. It's as if the knife edge is still in him. He can feel the press of cold steel up and down his arm, into his very fingertips. He flexes his hands, particularly his left one, in their restraints and takes a few deep breaths.

He spits his next words through clenched lips.

"Fuck this. And fuck you, Moran. You're dead. I'm going to kill you, you murderous bastard."

Moran straightens, his eyes glacial, as he stares down John Watson.

"You're free to try,  _Captain_ Watson _."_

Moran stands in front of John and looks down at the doctor. "I've waited a long time, Watson, to meet up with you again. I didn't think it was ever going to happen. And then Jim goes and tosses me a bone – you. Gotta love him."

Moran shakes his head and grins, all teeth. John's heart hammers in his chest. Moran's voice becomes an irritant – a grating sound to be noted and ignored - as he attempts to calm his respiration and just breathe through the growing agony in his shoulder and back. The urge to move is overwhelming but cold steel binds his wrists and more immobilizes his ankles. All he can move is his torso slightly and he isn't about to squirm in front of this man.

He straightens a bit and pain shoots through his aching muscles and down the back of his left arm. If he can't shift his position soon, his muscles will lock up and he won't be able to move when – if – Moriarty decides to let him loose. He fights the urge to drop his head back against the chair and instead, grits his teeth and forces his head up and his eyes front and center.

He mentally calculates how many stitches it will take to close up the wound. Then decides he doesn't care as long as he gets his chance at this sadistic monster.

He looks at Moran and twists his neck to one side, then to the other. The slight movement gives him a bit of respite but he resists the urge to do it a second time.

"Tell me, Moran, how did it feel to be court-martialed? Tossed out on your arse? I note you're still calling yourself Colonel. I don't understand why they didn't just put a bullet in your brain and save all the trouble and expense of a military tribunal. Plenty of volunteers for that, I can tell you. And how in hell are you even out and free to walk around?"

Moran makes a movement, and John's breath catches. His muscles tense in anticipation. But the soldier is just settling himself against the table. He fingers the knife in his hand. John does not need to look at the blade. He knows it's red with his blood. No need to see it again.

"Fuck their court-martial and fuck you, Watson. If Jim didn't have plans for you later, you'd be on your knees right now, squealing like a stuck pig, begging for death."

John's thin lips tighten. "Never thought I'd see the day when you followed someone else's orders again,  _Moran_."

He stresses the surname to emphasize the lack of title. It's an honorarium John knows the other man no longer deserves, if he ever did.

He tilts his head as if studying Moran. "How's that feel, by the way? Taking orders from that stinking' bag of ferrets?"

Moran laughs, a snort of amusement. "Why don't you tell me, Watson? Jim can't be as mad as Holmes. 'Cept Jim pays for the best and that means he gets me. But I can't help but wonder how Holmes hooked up with a sad arse like you."

His fingers press along the knife and the murderous blade closes. He reaches with his long arms and John tenses. But Moran simply uses the butt end to nudge John's outer shirt over the bleeding wound. He gives the shirt a deliberate shove, pushing in with the knife hilt, which effectively pushes the worn cotton against the new hole in John's skin.

John's breath lets out and he winces. He briefly considers the danger of infection, then mentally shrugs it aside. At least his shirt is – was – relatively clean. The cotton should act as a makeshift bandage and help stem the flow of blood until it can be seen.

Moran pushes the knife into his pocket. He crosses his arms. And shakes his head.

"God, Watson, you make me laugh. You were one hell of a soldier. Everyone knew it. One of the best damned shots I've ever seen. Supposed to be a crack surgeon. There was a time I considered recruiting you. How in hell's name did you end up here, on the other end of Jim's hook?"

He regards John closely, the glint of murderous humor in his gaze.

"I follow Jim. You follow Holmes. Like I said, we've got a lot in common, you and me. How's that working out for you, by the way? He have you on your knees yet? Jeez, Watson, I gotta tell you, I never pegged you for one to take it up the ass, but hey, whatever floats your boat."

He grins at John.

John's eyes turn cold and a half shade darker then the sea. Cold rage floods his system and he strains against his bonds. If only he could alleviate the pain that spreads from his left side, down his arm and across his abdomen. He takes another deep breath. At least the agony serves as a counterpart to the burgeoning fury that has him sitting upright instead of bending over on himself, trying to shelter his body from further harm.

Another deep breath. A third. Then it happens. John feels the eerie calm that he experiences in times of severe distress override his senses like a cold blanket. His heart rate calms. The line of fire that begins at his torn shoulder becomes an anchor, that serves as mooring for his mental and physical agony.

John begins to flex his left hand again, a furtive movement that helps him center his concentration.

Moran narrows his gaze. "No answer, Watson?

"Just one," John says. The effort to keep flexing his left hand and at the same time, to pull precious oxygen into his aching lungs, makes sweat pour down his brow. It soaks into his lashes and stings his eyes. "You can fuck right off and die with that."

Moran actually laughs, a bark of a sound that startles John and sets his teeth on edge. Moran's hand strays to his pocket and John knows he fingers the knife in his grasp.

John keeps his eyes straight ahead and ignores the implied threat.

"Aw, Watson, if anyone is going to bite it, it's going to be you. Jim's definitely got plans for you tonight. "

Moran's voice trails off as he regards the doctor with mock solemnness.

"Tell me something, Watson, what made you go to the higher ups? Was it that you just couldn't stand seeing someone else make good on the side? Jealous of the success I had going? I would have cut you in, you know. All you had to do was ask. So tell me, what was it exactly made you squeal like the little cock-sucking turd you are? I really want to know."

John stares at Moran incredulously through bloodshot eyes that sting with sweat. When he speaks, his voice is hard as nails. And just as cold.

"You were using them. The very people we were there to protect. Women. Children. Fucks' sake, Moran. You used little kids. Kids!"

Moran shrugs. His expression never changes. "They were there to be used."

John's eyes narrow. The roaring sound that threatened to drown out his hearing a few minutes ago fades. It's as if his blood slows in its mad rush through his veins, a living counterpoint to his steady heartbeat.

Moran goes on as if he doesn't notice the change in the bound man in front of him.

"Sure, we lost a few. Plenty more where those came from."

John takes another deep breath and manages to push his disgust away. He wills the life-giving oxygen into every cell of his body. Despite the maelstrom of pain in his shoulder and side and the myriad smaller pains throughout his body, he pulls himself up as straight as he can. His tortured muscles protest but he ignores them.

He looks straight into Sebastian Moran's sharp eyes.

"I am going to kill you, Moran. And that's not a threat. It's a bloody promise. Today. Tomorrow. Soon. And it won't be long and drawn out, like Amber's death was – that was her name, by the way, Sergeant Amber Killeen."

John's voice is biting, his syllables clipped. "It will be quick and fast,  _Colonel_  Moran. One second you will be here, in the world – and the next – you won't. You'll be another piece of rotting garbage. Dog meat that once had a name. And I won't even bother to roll you into the nearest ditch or kick dirt over your sorry corpse."

Moran's eyes narrow. He watches John, his cold gaze speculating. Then he shrugs again and takes his knife out of his pocket. He begins to toss it hand to hand.

"Maybe someone needs to explain the facts of life to you, Doc. I never had anyone, and I mean anyone, turn down what I was offering. You'd be surprised how the Queen and country jobbers, like yourself, rolled over and played nice for a bit of hard cash. Drugs. Firearms. And I'm not just talking about our own guys. The locals, all those home-grown warlords? Shit. That's what all of them wanted. Cash, guns. Pain-killers. They all had their own little battles going, on the side."

John's breath forces its way out of his chest. He hasn't even realized he was holding it.

"And the men and women under your command, the ones who were captured, tortured? The ones you got killed?"

"Shite, Doc, you talk like they all died. Plenty didn't. Don't think for one minute they wouldn't trade a spot of trouble for a ticket back home. As for the others, well that's what you were there for. To patch 'em up, stick a fentanyl lollie in their mouths and send them home to the wife and kiddies."

He grins at John suddenly. "Bet you could use one right now, Watson. Damn shame about your shoulder and all."

"You're a murdering, mother-less bastard, Moran, you know that? And I'm going to enjoy putting the bullet in your brain."

Moran sighs, drops his knife back in his pocket and then stands. John watches his movements.

"Hey, can I call you Doc? You know, cause you're not really a Captain anymore?"

John says nothing. But tries to brace himself for what is coming. The pain in his shoulder has spread, morphed into a stomach-churning miasma of grey agony. He strives to find the icy calm he experienced earlier but it eludes him.

Moran takes a step toward John, then turns and walks around the doctor. John can no longer see Moran. But he knows the sadist stands directly behind him. Cold chills race over John's skin. He mentally curses himself as a coward.

Moran stands in back of the doctor and flexes his fingers. John hears the separate crack of each knuckle. He swallows. The knife, Moran will use the damned knife now.

But he's wrong. Moran walks around John, to stand in front of him again, still flexing his fingers. John ignores the bravado display and concentrates on keeping upright and conscious. Moran tilts his head, clearly waiting for an answer.

John affects a nonchalance he doesn't feel. In actual fact, his heart is pounding his chest and for the first time, he wonders if Moran really intends to kill him before Moriarty returns.

"Piss off, Moran. Do what you're going to do before your little mad Irishman gets back and jerks your chain. I wonder how happy he'll be when he sees I'm damaged goods."

Moran laughs aloud. The sound is jarring.

John ignores it and unconsciously winces as he flexes and releases the fingers of both hands, then his wrists. He tries to tighten his arm muscles, then release them to help rid himself of some of the tension but he's only partly successful with his right arm and shoulder. His entire left side is nearly one all-encompassing slide of sheer agony. His shoulder muscles have begun to spasm. John grits his teeth.

Still laughing, Moran wipes his eyes with the back of one large hand.

"I gotta tell you, Watson, your reputation is deserved."

He draws himself up to his full six feet and sketches a mock salute at John. "Captain Bad Ass Watson, Sir!"

 _Mad_ _,_  John thinks. As barking mad as Moriarty, and twice as dangerous. God. How did the two of them ever hook up? How did Moriarty find Moran, free him from whatever hell hole of a prison the military had stuck him in? Or was it the other way round: somehow, someway Moran got out and then found Jim. And why does he even care? It's Sherlock he should be thinking about. Not himself. And definitely not Moran.

John tries to consciously loosen his muscles but the state his shoulder is in makes his neck muscles cramp. He wonders if he'll be able to turn his head after this. He's dimly aware that blood continues to trickle down his chest to pool against the waistband of his jeans. It's the least of his worries right now.

Surely, Moriarty will be here soon? For the first time, John realizes his hasn't given more than a fleeting thought to Sherlock nor Moriarty's damnable puzzles, not the entire time Moran has been with him. Hot shame floods through John at his perceived mental abandonment of his friend but the next moment, he has no energy to give it.

The uppermost thoughts he has had have been how to survive the next few minutes – or hours – so he can kill Sebastian Moran when the chance comes. And kill him he will. He just needs a chance. One sodding chance.

As for Sherlock, he needs to give the detective time. But how?

Moran moves and John watches him take a step forward.

If Moran follows through with his threat, despite Moriarty's warnings … if John is so badly injured … then he can't be Moriarty's victim for Sherlock to save, can he? No victim. No puzzle to solve. Right? John's mind races. No. If he's badly injured, he'll be of no use to Sherlock, when the time comes.

If only he knew what Moriarty had in mind, then maybe he could come up with something . Anything.

The only thing he can think of is to keep Moran talking until Moriarty shows up. John frowns. It's a stupid plan. A truly awful plan. And his consulting detective would give him bloody hell for it later.

Moran shifts his stance and John says the first thing that comes into his head.

"What's your bat shite insane boss going to say if you damage his hostage, Moran? Hey, can I call you Moran, since you're not a _Colonel_ anymore? Or anything but a pet killer, for that matter?"

Moran sighs. "I've hunted tigers that had more sense than you, Watson. I'm almost disappointed. Almost."

He opens one palm and considers it, before closing it into a tight fist. He looks at John. "As for Jim? Well, you know how it is, Watson. Sometimes, most of the time, Jim's the smartest guy on the planet."

Moran takes another small step toward John. He smiles at John, a smile of childish delight.

"And others? He's just the devil in a hell'a nice suit."

And then his fist moves in a blur. John tries to roll with it, and hunches his upper arms in an attempt to soften the blow. But instead of the expected punch to the shoulder, the mercenary's meaty fist connects solidly with John's stomach. His breath is forced out with the blow and John grunts with the pain.

Moran's second blow immediately follows the first but this time, it lands squarely on his bad shoulder. John can't help the scream. It's forced out of him along with what feels like all the remaining air in his lungs.

His entire body clenches like a fist. Throbbing contrails of white hot agony, near incandescent in their intensity, spread through his torso. His body begins to shake and his breath to hitch. If there were anything left in his stomach to heave, he'd heave it.

John's vision spikes and he lets his head drop forward. Sweat soaks his shirt and vest, already wet with his blood. His jeans are soaked in sweat and his thigh muscles shake. He gasps for breath, then tries to steady the involuntary shakes that spread through his muscles. His body has become one heaving paroxysm of torment.

John tries to brace himself for a third blow, but it never comes. His head still ducked, he senses, rather than sees, Moran step back. John takes a cautious breath, then another. He uses the metal cuffs around his wrist as leverage to maneuver his body into a more or less upright position. For a moment, he blinks downward at the bands across his thighs. Then he lifts his head.

As if nothing has occurred, Moran lounges against the table, one hip casually balanced against the edge. His entire demeanor is eerily nonchalant as he digs in his other pocket, pulls out a lighter, and then produces a small cigar. He busies himself with lighting the thing, and then blows a small puff of smoke into the air.

John follows the tiny wisp of smoke with stinging eyes. His thoughts feel sluggish. But he's damned if he'll give into this son of a bitch _. Concentrate, Watson. For gods sake_ …

Moriarty's sniper watches John with something akin to amusement in his eyes. He waits for John to speak.

"Bored? So soon?" John asks, his voice rough. He's confused, as he struggles to breathe through the miasma of pain that threatens unconsciousness. He wonders how long he has before he blacks out.

And Moriarty? Where is the little son of a bitch when you need him?

Moran shrugs. "We've got time, Watson. Jim won't be ready for you yet." He puffs on the cigar for a moment and smoke begins to cloud the air.

John fights the urge to cough. He hacks once, then shakes his head. "Those things will kill you," he gasps. He coughs again as the smoke settles around his head.

"You know something, Doc? You're right."

Moran takes the cigar out of his mouth and considers the tip with interest, then blows on it. John sees sparks of red fly up and outward.

With that, Moran bends forward. One of his long fingers flick John's shirt open. John registers his intent one second before the glowing cigar tip connects with his shoulder, directly over the knife wound. He cries out and tries to lash out with his feet, to push himself away from the murderous traitor of Kandahar. But his ankles are firmly bound and he can only move so far against the restraints over his thighs.

He's aware his flesh is burning and he opens his mouth to scream again. "Shite! Shite! Shi-".

Tears drip from John's eyes and if he could loosen his bonds, he knows he is capable of tearing Sebastian Moran limb from limb. Then Moran is behind him and John feels iron fingers pry the fingers of his left hand up and away. He struggles to keep his hand clenched, but Moran's grasp is stronger.

His voice sounds ruined, even to him, as he strains to fight back.

The heat from the cigar glows against John's palm, before it connects with the skin of his hand.

John cries out and his voice sounds ruined, even to him, as he struggles against his bonds and the burning pain.

"Fuck! What the bloody hell! You piece of sh-!"

Somewhere a door opens but John barely registers it. He's rapidly losing consciousness and his head lulls to the side, even as he hears Moriarty's voice, raised in obvious anger.

"Okay, Seb, that's enough . I warned you to leave him intact."

"Right, Jim. Just having a little fun."

"Well, play time's over, my dear. Time to get him ready for my little drama."

John's head droops and unbidden tears stream down his cheeks. He feels no shame in crying in front of these freaks of nature. Afghanistan taught him that. Pain is pain and you do whatever the hell you have to do to cope with it, work through it and come out on the other side. The important thing is that you do come out on the other side.

If that means crying, you bloody well cry. And if it means screaming, you scream. There's no courage in bearing torture with fortitude. Nothing to be gained. So he lets the tears fall, as he struggles not to lose consciousness, not before he knows what lies ahead for Sherlock and for himself.

The deep ache in his shoulder has spread to encompass his entire left side, his chest and most of his torso. Tendrils of agony skitter across the damaged nerve endings in his hand. His fingers shake as he tries to keep them from clenching over the burnt flesh.

He fights for consciousness, even as his thoughts slow. Somehow, he manages to open his stinging eyes and lift his head a bit. He is dimly aware that Moriarty has picked up the small black object from the table in front of him. John's eyes open wider as he sees the hypo. He knows he should be scared to death, but he's in such physical torment that the thought of what may be in the syringe is – almost – a blessing.

Then Moriarty is close, too close. There's a sharp sting in the side of his neck. And the cold fury at his mistreatment at Moran's hands and his own growing agony begins to slowly fade. His mind blurs and he's aware he's losing what control he had over his muscles. He sags forward, past caring.

A grey fog clouds his vision and he sighs and shuts his eyes. Drifting, John's last truly coherent thought is, "It's been a pleasure and a privilege, Sherlock Holmes."

Moran's voice rings in his head. "Jim, is that necessary? Not much fight left in him."

Jim's voice, "It's only a mild sedative. He'll only be out for a few minutes. But if you've gone and damaged the good doctor, Seb, before I can make use of him -."

The warning is clear.

John feels his body grow slack in his bonds. A mild euphoria spreads through his system and he has the insane urge to giggle.

Moran's voice again, too close, always too close. "Naww. He'll be good as gold once he's had a bit of a kip. You're right, Jim. He'll be easier to rig this way."

John loses the upper level of consciousness even as someone snaps the restraints off his wrists, then his thighs, and finally his ankles. He feels the rough jerk of his gloves being yanked on over his hands. He doesn't even cry out as the leather impacts the burn in his palm. Simultaneously, there's a conspiratorial whisper in his ear, "Best not to let Jim see this, hmm?"

Then he's yanked to his feet and someone's large hands steady him as he sways where he stands. Something cold and metallic is forced down the back of his neck. He should lash out. Fight. But his muscles are lax and a growing lassitude serves to lessen the utter throbbing ache that was his body a few hours ago.

Someone whispers in his ear. "Watch your flank, Doc."

Later, he would swear it was Moran.

The pain and anger begins to recede … John lets it go. Dimly, he's aware he's falling. And frankly, he doesn't give a damn.

John's last conscious thought is also his mantra.

_Sherlock._

When he wakes, his shoulder's been bandaged, he's wearing enough explosives to bring down a city block and James Moriarty stands in front of him, grinning the Cheshire cat grin of the truly insane.

**OooOooO**

John stops talking. He watches the water drops from the fountain spray. The late sun sets them ablaze and they sparkle like crystals in his vision. He isn't even aware he's unconsciously been clenching and unclenching his left fist while he spoke. John hears the tiny click as Maggie leans forward to turn off the small digital recorder.

He turns his head to face her. The American lays her notebook and pen to the side, then crosses her hands in her lap. Her eyes are full.

The two of them look at each other.

 

 

**OooOooO**

 

**Author Notes:**

 

**Dear Readers:  If I had a dime for every time I've promised to start posting ANGELS again…well, I'd have a lot of dimes !**

**This chapter initially clocked in at 10,000 words. It has been broken into 2 pieces and Part 2 posts shortly. I believe the log jam has been broken.**

**I have never dealt with writer's block before and indeed, I wasn't even certain such a thing existed. But if mini panic attacks and the overwhelming feeling that one's words are worthless and that writing anything more is an exercise in futility counts, then yes, I reckon it was writer's block – a raging case of it. Which was all the more frustrating as ANGELS is entirely mapped out and the ending was written 2 years ago – my lovely Beta, SHERLOCK'SSCARF – can attest to that!**

**If you are still following my poor attempt at a story – Thank You so much for hanging in there with me.**

**First and foremost, Glorious Pink Champagne Bubbles to my awesome beta, SHERLOCK'SSCARF, without whom this chapter and the continuance of ANGELS would not be a reality and that's the Truth. Patience; Love; Forbearance; enduring friendship; impromptu planning sessions, cards, letters and phone calls - not to mention hundreds upon hundreds of email exchanges – all these served to keep ANGELS alive and to keep me from drowning in misery. Truly, I felt I had nothing left to say to anyone, but she convinced me otherwise. So…yes…the story goes on.**

**And if you haven't yet her incredible series - NO HEART FOR ME LIKE YOURS, of which her current WIP – A HOLE IN THE WORLD – can be found out on fan fiction dot net, as well as on AO3, then please do so. Run! Read! Enjoy! And please let her know what you think of her lovely work! She currently has 8 works posted out on Fan fiction dot net and on AO3. You can also find her beautiful and genius photo manips on AO3. Her covers have graced several of my stories and chapters, as well as many, many other works in this fandom, and they are all the better for her artistic talent!**

**THANK YOU SWEETIE. You are the BEST. Your Friendship is one of the high points of my life. You have been there for me each step of the way through this difficult journey. And I can't thank you enough, Sweetheart. But I'll try - Thank you. Thank you . Thank you!**

**Dear MapleleafCameo – there are no words for this lady's kind friendship and constant encouragement. Although enduring her own personal tragedy, she has remained courageous, resolute, loving and Always understanding and kind. Her constant encouragement – along with that of SHERLOCK'SSCARF – has kept my writing muse alive and I cannot thank her enough for the many kindnesses.**

**MapleleafCameo is a wonderfully prolific writer with a terrific sense of humor and can be found out on fan fiction dot net. She has written 79 enduring works in this fandom, to date, and each one of them is a lovely read! I would be hard pressed to pick a personal favorite. But one of my favorites: THE HAUNTING OF SHERLOCK HOLMES. Another favorite: MALEDICTION.**

**(I have tried posting links to my fav authors but I don't know if it's a problem with AO3 or my ineptitude. They don't seem to always work?)**

**Thank You, Sweetheart, for your friendship and encouragement. It has meant the world to me.**

**Next, Great and Good myriad Thanks go out to JODI2011. She has traded emails and stories with me and kept me laughing and intrigued … from halfway around the world! I cannot wait to see what each email brings and follow her intriguing career with interest. She lives in a truly beautiful country that I can only hope to visit in my dreams. There aren't enough Thank You's to tell you what your friendship has meant to me and continues to mean. You rock, Lady !**

**Jodi2011 is the talented writer who introduced me to the world of 24. Her works include: DRIVEL, DRIVEL II (a 24 WIP and most excellent), as well as a wonderful 24 AU, based in the "old American West." Fast-paced and absorbing reading. She can be found out on fan fiction dot net. JODI2011.**

**Great good thanks and virtual hugs go to: macgyvershe, who has written many, Many lovely stories in this fandom, which can be found out on the AO3. She is also a very good artist AND a most excellent doll maker! I am fortunate enough to own one of her creations and get to enjoy it every day. She and I have kept up a most pleasurable correspondence and it is always interesting to see what creative works she has in process. Thank you, my Dear ! Please check out her Sherlock fics and others here on AO 3)**

**I Do promise to learn how to link to these fics, and quite soon.**

**Grateful thanks go to:  Wollemia nobilis; and Gameson221B; and so many others, that I cannot list them here. Thank you so much for your kind messages of support, encouragement, and ongoing PM exchanges!**

**I know I have left off many of your names but please forgive me. My memory is not always at its best lately and it's not possible to list all of your names here. But please know that your comments, Reviews, kind PM's and constructive criticisms are most gratefully read and always appreciate.  They have all helped me so very much. Thank You!**

**And now…Onward !**

' **sky'**


	20. Chapter 20

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One:  ACCLAMATIONS**

 

**Ch. 20**

 

**Better the Devil You Know, Part 2**

 

**(Thank you for your patience while I helped family members pack and move to another state.  And while I got my health sorted out a bit these last weeks.)**

**Glittering crystal goblets of bubbling pink champagne to my long-suffering beta, Sherlock’sScarf.  Sweetie, in case I haven’t mentioned it – YOU ROCK !**

**OooOooO**

 

**WARNINGS:  Psychological counseling session.  Memories of war and violence.  Mention of torture and murder.   Maggie Oakton is a BAMF.  Sherlock and John need to sort out their priorities.  Mycroft Holmes.  One very dodgy violin.  If any of these are a trigger for you, please skip this one.**

 

**OooOooO**

 

“My experience of life is that it is not divided up into genres; it’s a horrifying, romantic, tragic, comical, science-fiction cowboy detective novel. You know, with a bit of pornography if you're lucky.”  
― [Alan Moore](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/3961.Alan_Moore)

 “It’s good to have mysteries.  It reminds us that there’s more to the world than just making do and having a bit of fun.”

-          Charles de Lint

**OooOooO**

 John looks directly at Maggie.  _That’s all she wrote, Doc._  

Maggie’s green eyes are suspiciously bright.  She frowns at his hands, clenched in his lap.

Abruptly, she stands.   “Excuse me a moment, John.  I think we can use more tea, right?”

She doesn’t wait for his reply but stands and leaves.  The door closes behind her with a quiet snick.  John takes a breath, then unclenches his hands, lets them fall by his side.

Tired, John leans back against the outrageously comfortable chair and shuts his eyes.  Christ, he’s a mess.  Exhausted.  Confused.  More than a bit conflicted.  It’s a wonder he hasn’t snapped at Dr. Margaret Oakton. 

While he waits on Maggie, his mind races over the events of the past two days, since he and Sherlock returned to Baker Street.  The two men basically spent the past two days not speaking with each other, after John’s _– admit it, Watson, he tells himself-_ extreme over-reaction to Sherlock’s conversation with Merit.

When he returned to the flat after his episode at Clara’s, John is certain that Sherlock knows all about the panic attack, as one of the women would have texted him, probably Clara, but the detective said nothing.  Sherlock merely glanced at him once, nodded as if to confirm something to himself, then turned on his side on the sofa and basically sulked for the rest of the day.

Monday night and the next day brought more of the same.  The two men studiously avoided each other, neither of them speaking, until John felt he would jump out of his skin.  He already felt uncomfortable about his reaction to walking in on Sherlock’s conversation with Merit, but damned if he knew how to approach it.  Also, Sherlock was being a total dick about the whole thing.

Finally, mid-afternoon on the second day, Sherlock broke the silence with one terse word, “Mycroft.”

When the elder Holmes entered the flat, John stood without preamble and walked into the kitchen, barely listening as Sherlock coldly commanded his brother to remove himself immediately.  He busied himself making tea, during which tense interval John heard the word _violin_ used twice and _Mummy_ , once, before the elder Holmes, in a rare display of acquiescence, left the flat just as abruptly as he came, without John ever knowing what he came after.

In the pointed silence that followed, John placed both palms down on their kitchen table and stared at the scarred surface, his head bent until he could get his emotions under control.  Much later, he once again retired to bed.  Alone.  Still alone.

Until that morning, when a quiet ping alerted him to a text.

 In Maggie’s consultation room, John opens his eyes and wipes his face wearily with one hand.   His afternoon stubble makes a faint rasp against his calloused fingers.  He’s so fucking tired.  It’s as if the last few days have drained him of all energy.

He pulls out his mobile, silenced for his session with Oakton and reads the text that awakened him earlier this day.

**Oakton today.**

**2:30**

**SH**

John hardly needed reminding of his appointment but he was unsurprised when he receives the text from the abnormally taciturn man he lives with.  He rereads it.  Then slips the phone back into his pocket.

Now, hours later, he glances at Maggie’s pad, left on her chair, and frowns.  Why _these_ particular memories now?  What did he hope to gain by talking this over with Oakton?  For gods’ sake, so much has happened in the past few months.  So very much, including the death of the two most dangerous enemies he and Sherlock have ever faced.

He thought he was getting better.  The nightmares from his time in Afghanistan less frequent.  True, they have been replaced with brand new nightmares after his abduction and torture at the hands of a madman. But so many of those were drug-hinged.  And with Sherlock’s help, he felt he had been dealing admirably with those.

_Well, shit._

John glances around the room.  He feels fidgety, for all of his aches and pains.  He has the sudden urge to get up and just leave, to walk out on Oakton and keep on walking, down the street, across the city if need be.  He needs air but has the sure feeling not enough fresh air exists in London to rid him of this gagging feeling of claustrophobia from forced inaction.

The afternoon sun makes its slow way across the muted shades of the deep-pile carpets.  It slides over the highly polished surfaces of mahogany tables and stalwart bookshelves.  He watches as the deepening light sparks the myriad volumes in shades of amber and gold, deep teal, dark blue and forest green.

The door opens.  John glances up.

Maggie comes in with two cups, carefully balanced on matching china saucers.  He quickly stands to take one from her.  As he deposits one delicate cup on the side table, he glances at her.  He would swear that she has splashed her face.  A few tendrils have escaped her dark bob and they appear damp. She sets her cup down beside her, and then settles back in her chair.  She makes no move to pick up her pad and pen. 

By mutual unspoken agreement, they sit quietly and sip their tea.  Then Maggie sets her empty cup down and regards John. She thinks of the half dozen things she should ask him.  _Why this occurrence? Why now?  Why are you discussing something that happened over a year back and not the most recent events that have left such obvious mental and emotional marks?  Just what is going on in that mind, John Watson? What mental horrors do you live with on a daily basis and how can I help you exorcise them? And is that even possible?_

She says none of these things.

“John, I’m not going to lie to you.  I want us to remain on the best possible terms.  With that in mind, you should know that Mycroft shared some concerns you discussed with him this past weekend in the Holmes mansion.”

John sets his own cup down and it rattles in the delicate saucer. 

_Fucking Mycroft Holmes._

She holds up a slim hand.

“I’m sorry, John.  I didn’t ask, believe me.  In this instance, Mycroft volunteered the information.  He obviously knew you and I had this appointment –”

“Obviously,” John says tightly.

She nods in commiseration.  “Again, I’m sorry John.  The only time I have purposefully sought information that is personal to you is when you were in hospital, before I took on your case, and later –”

“When bombs were exploding,” John says heavily.

She nods.  “Yes, John.”

He drums with his left hand on the chair arm, then looks up.

“Okay, Maggie, just what did Mycroft Holmes tell you about this weekend and what possible bearing can it have on this session?”

“Nothing too onerous, John,” she says quietly.  She thinks for a moment.

“Mycroft said the two of you argued over Sherlock’s being sent to a rehab facility years before.  He said you were quite _perturbed_ over this event.”

“What?”

She tilts her head and regards him thoughtfully. 

“I am merely mentioning that fact, John.  But let’s get back to that in a few moments, if that’s okay?”

She folds her hands in her lap.  The stone on her third finger shoots tiny sparks of fire in the afternoon light.

_He is going to fucking kill Mycroft Holmes._

“Maggie,” John says.  “What are we doing here?  Just exactly what are you getting at?”

“Cognitive behavioral therapy, John.  I mentioned that in the mansion.”

His forehead lines as he thinks back.   He nods once.  “Okay.    And that is going to help me – how?”

She grins suddenly.  Just as quickly, the atmosphere lightens.

“Haven’t got a clue in hell, John.  This is really more Galen’s area. But let’s take a stab at it, okay?”

He watches her, aware his mouth is twitching.  She’s joking.  He knows she’s joking.  Maggie Oakton’s mild laugh is contagious.  In this instance, she reminds him overwhelmingly of Lori.  A soft pang shoots through him and he wonders how the tiny nurse is.  Then he remembers Lori is getting married in a few days and, presumably, he’ll have the chance to find out.

Then he laughs.  God, it feels good to just laugh.

“Margaret Oakton, I have no idea how to respond to half of what you say or do.”

She glances at him with wry amusement.

“What a coincidence.”

They regard each other fondly.

“John, I know that you and Sherlock have an ongoing investigation. You indicated as much before we began this session.   Frankly, when I went for tea just now, I made it a point to open the outside door, just to see if he was waiting on you.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” John says. 

She laughs again.  “Well, in this instance, he wasn’t there.  He’s undoubtedly waiting for you back at Baker Street, eager to hear all about this session, chomping at the bit to dump on my proposed treatment.”

He smiles at her Americanisms.

“But why now, John?  Why is this particular memory important to you?  You said you have been experiencing vivid dreams.  None of them related to this incident.  So why are you here, now, discussing this, rather than the dreams you’ve been experiencing lately?”

John looks beyond Margaret Oakton, to the wall behind her and the hundreds of books that march rank upon rank, upon the polished shelves.

“I – I’m not sure, Maggie.  I’ve been trying to find a common thread here.  And the only thing I can come up with…the only thing my mind keeps coming back to, over and over again is…” he hesitates, not certain how high her security clearance extends.  Then mentally shrugs.  She is one of Mycroft’s now.  Supposedly, anything John talks about in this room is allowed.  In the end, he just thinks, _screw_ _it._

“I don’t’ know how much you know of what happened when I was kidnapped and afterward, when Sherlock found me.  But –”

“Let me put your mind to rest on this one subject, John.  It might save an unnecessary amount of dancing around each other. ”

He nods.

She leans toward him slightly and uses the movement to choose her next words with care.

“John, there are two official reports of your abduction and subsequent maltreatment.  The one that resides with Scotland Yard,” here she glances at him, “and the one that I read shortly after Mycroft brought me in on your case.”

She lifts her chin and looks directly at John Watson.  “I made it quite clear to Mycroft, before I agreed to meet with you in the hospital, John,  that I had to know what you had faced.  What had been done to you.  You know all this from our prior discussions in the mansion, but I felt it needed repeating here.”

Maggie says nothing but waits for him to continue.  Still, from the way she tilts her head, the set of her shoulders and her knowing expression, he swears that she knows he killed Moran.  But he does not say this aloud.  Murder, however justified, is still murder in John’s book.  He has no wish to involve the psychologist in one of his worst nightmares.  He just wants to understand.  _And if she can help him do that_ …

He stops short of mentioning Lestrade, loathe bringing the DI, a good man and a good friend, into this discussion.  Mycroft, he feels, is fair game.

He looks at her, his navy blue eyes steady  

“I don’t want to talk about the Wellington again, Maggie.  Not yet.  Mainly because I still have very few clear memories of most of it.  But I need to know that…” his voice trails off.  

John flounders. He has no idea what he clearly needs of the American at this moment, only that he needs it. 

She nods.  “Okay then. “  She considers for a moment.

“John,” she says. Her voice is gentle and caring.  “I want to help you in any way I can. And you know that everything you say, and I mean _everything_ remains confidential between the two of us.”

She taps the recorder with one manicured finger.  “No one, John, will ever hear of what has transpired here, unless you wish it so. And that goes double for Mycroft Holmes.”

John nods and waits for her to continue.  He knows all this.

“But John, I have to say something here, before we go any further.”

She has his undivided attention.

“John, I need you to understand something about yourself.  Perhaps it’s something that you are already aware of, but I need to know that you know what concerns me about the pool incident and again, about your behavior in the Wellington.  Is that okay with you?”

He frowns.  “Not sure what you’re going for here.”  He licks his lips and clenches his hand.

“Okay then. I’ll make it easy for you.”   She picks up her pad and flips back a few pages.  John glances at across and is only slightly startled to see that her notes seem to be in some sort of shorthand. She notices his glance and smiles.

“I’ve developed my own shorthand over the years, John.  No peeking,” she says, with barely concealed amusement.  She flips the book shut and drops it beside her.

_“And you read my handwriting upside down,” said Ella.  “See what I mean?”_

A flush spreads across John’s face.  He nods. 

“John, there were so many things going on with that.  You were under the influence of a frankly horrendous chemical cocktail.  You must know, better than most, what drugs can do to your frame of mind.  Both during and long after administration.”

“Believe me, I know.”

“I know you do.  You are a most excellent doctor, John.”

He frowns at her words but just nods. 

“Okay then.” 

 Maggie’s voice is cautiously professional.  “John, from my point of view, there was one common thread in each occurrence.  And it’s possible that this same ‘thread’ is what led to your panic attack two days ago.”

He doesn’t speak.  But he’s listening.

“I have no idea what you went through in Afghanistan.  I wouldn’t even hazard a guess out of respect for you and the thousands of soldiers who have fought so bravely in that battle.  But I know you were gravely injured, that you nearly died from that bullet wound and later, when you were on the road to recovery, you contracted a fever which not only brought you to near death, but seems to be the underlying cause of many of your more horrendous nightmares.  You survived all of that John, only to come home to England and realize that you were not, let us say, yourself.”

_Sitting on a park bench, next to Mike Stamford.  “I’m not the John Watson.”_

“You met Sherlock.  And your life changed, drastically and immediately.”

He stares at the neatly ordered bookcases behind her but his attention is fully on her.  He just cannot look at her right now.

“John?  Are you with me?”

He nods. And focuses on her face.

“John, from what you have recounted today and from our previous sessions, both at the pool, with Moriarty and Moran, and later, in the Wellington museum, despite the fact that each time you were in danger of dying, you had one overriding concern, and it wasn’t your own mortality.”

He frowns.

 “You said here that even when you were drugged, held captive, unable to escape, you had an overwhelming feeling that you should have been doing something, anything, to protect Sherlock.”

Johns frown line deepens _.  Just where is she going with this?_  

“John. You feel an overwhelming, near Pavlovian reaction to the merest hint that your partner’s life may be endangered.  You’ve proven that time and again.”

She sits back and speaks methodically, ticking items off a mental list.

“This past weekend, at the Holmes mansion.  Am I correct in assuming that there were some revelations made, perhaps explanations of Sherlock’s earlier life?  You and Sherlock were fine until your way home.  And he…”

John stirs.  “He had a panic attack.”

She nods.  “And you should be able to recognize that, of all people.”

She frowns at his fingers.  He realizes that he is still drumming them against the soft chair leather.  He abruptly stops.

“John, has it occurred to you that you have taken it on yourself to be Sherlock’s protector, to be there for him, even when life incidents dictate that it’s not possible?”

 _This is not news_. He nods. 

She goes on.  “You told Mycroft that you were angry over the fact he had been sent to rehab when he was quite young.”

“15,” John intercedes.

“But John, you’re a doctor.  You know it’s quite common for people with drug problems, particularly juveniles, to be sent to rehabilitation counseling and that their family members are usually not in evidence.  It is common procedure to –“

“He was _15,_ Maggie.”

She regards him evenly.   Then she leans forward and clasps her hands.  Her tones are gentle.  Concerned.

“John, how old were you when your father died?”

He licks his lips.   “15.”

Maggie nods. And says nothing.

Oh. 

_OH._

_Well, shit._

“And how old were you when you lost your mother?”

“16, just.”

“Okay.  So you and your sister, Harriet? Lost both your parents within a few months of each other.  At an extremely young and vulnerable age.  I would hazard a guess that that was your first encounter with mortality. And then you both went to live with your Aunt.  You finished school, then enlisted with the Army in exchange for your medical training.  And later, you shipped out to ..”

He interrupts her.  “I made a commitment.”

She nods.  “I understand that John.  But was it possible you were also running?  Turning your back on a situation you could not control, running toward a situation where you would be needed, wanted?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly tired of the conversation.

But Maggie is watching his left hand, as it clenches and opens in his lap.

“Just tell me what you’re getting at, Maggie.”

“John, not only do you exhibit the behavior of someone who only feels truly alive when you’re in peril of some sort.  But you have appointed yourself the protector, perhaps the sole protector, of Sherlock Holmes.  Whenever he is in danger, past or present, you react in a fairly typical manner.  You exhibit this behavior even when past circumstances are under discussion.  Circumstances that you cannot possibly control or affect in any way.”

John sighs.  “Okay, and?”

Maggie leans back slightly and regards him.

“You said your prior therapist said you have trust issues?”

Before he can respond, she goes on. 

“Okay.  I get that.  With your background and history of child abuse, continuing on into your teen years, that makes sense, John. You were betrayed by the adults, your parents, who were supposed to keep you safe.”

John looks at the tense veins that pop on his clenched fist. 

“You enlisted because you made a commitment to the British army to become the best doctor you could be.  To make a difference.  Later, you committed to your superior officers, to your fellow combatants, medical and otherwise.  You had young doctors under your care. You never do anything by halves, John Watson.  When you commit, you commit.  Body and soul.  Eventually, you were put in a situation where you lost control of the circumstances.  You were forced to watch as people you had sworn to protect were tortured and in some instances, killed.

_Amber.  Her brown eyes flashing pain.  Accusation.  He watched as life left her.  Until she was simply staring at him, through him, and beyond.  The light gone out.  He feels his chest heave.  Shit. Shit!_

“It’s more than obvious, John, that you blamed and continue to blame yourself for those circumstances.”

His words erupt without preamble.

“Maggie, I was their superior officer!  I was the one who—“

Her warm hand reaches out to touch his wrist. He stares at her fingers against his tense skin.

“John, please.  You’re an intelligent, educated man.  You know as well as I that any promises made in times of war are circumspect, at best.  You cannot possibly be expected to keep them all.  It’s not possible, John.  You couldn’t have anticipated what would –“

He has to move or jump out of his skin.  “Moran – ”

“Moran?”

“He betrayed us.  That bastard, that fucking … he betrayed his own people.  I should have seen that.  I should have known.  Instead, I let us walk right into an ambush.  And --”

She nods.

“You _were_ betrayed John. You put your trust in another soldier fighting the same war, under the same situation, and you were betrayed. And what was the result of that betrayal, Captain Watson?   You lost control of the situation. A situation that you were put in, not through your own actions, Captain, but those of your superiors.”

He jerks his hand out of her gentle grasp. 

She doesn’t understand.  She doesn’t _get it._

“We were at war, Doctor.”

 “Yes, John.  You _were_ at war.”

If she agrees with him one more time, he will scream.  Then he wonders if it's deliberate.

“And when you returned to England, you found yourself _still_ at war, at the pool and most recently, in the mansion, when bombs were exploding?  Still at war, John. ”

He shakes his head and refuses to meet her gaze.  His eyes fill.  He will not cry in front of her.  He will not. 

“John.  You need to feel needed.  Useful.  In control.  In the mansion, you exhibited that time and time again. When I put you under that day, you came out of it the John Watson we knew, the man we needed you to be. You assumed immediate command, John.  Even Mycroft’s men recognized the leader in you.  They deferred to you, John. And you helped save our lives.”

She reaches a tissue to him and he balls it in his fist, but does not look at her.  Instead, he stares at the water drops outside the window.  At the tiny movement as a small sparrow alights on the lip of the water fountain, then is gone.

He needs her to stop talking now.

“When that situation was over, you barely had time to adjust before you and Sherlock visited his mother.  Then you had a confrontation of sort with Mycroft.  Again, about Sherlock.  You became incensed at what you saw as Sherlock’s betrayal at the hands of his immediate family.  John, you were actually upset about a situation that occurred years before you and Sherlock met each other.  A situation that you could not possibly have controlled in any fashion.”

“I know that,” he says tightly.

She looks at him intently.  Pushing.  Always pushing.

“Do you?  Because everything we have worked on, everything you have revealed here today and elsewhere, says otherwise.”

He shuts his eyes and breathes.  Then opens his dark eyes to stare across at her.  It’s the patented Captain John Watson look that had Lieutenants pissing in the sand.

It has absolutely zero effect on Margaret Oakton.   

She smiles grimly.  “You are most happy when you are in dangerous situations, John.  You throw yourself between Sherlock Holmes and danger each and every time, regardless of the possible consequences to yourself.”

She sits back.  “And you are most frustrated when you feel you have failed in that task.”

John looks at her.  “What are you saying?  That I have control issues now?  I would say that’s a bit obvious, Doctor Oakton.”

She ignores the snide tones.

“I’m trying to help you to understand why a panic attack took the path it took.  I’m trying to help you understand why you feel the way you feel when confronted by situations under which you perceive you have little control.  I’m trying to help you understand why a certain incident occurred to you this week.  And why it’s more important to you, at the moment, then the dreams which led you to call me at 4 am not too long ago.”

He shakes his head and for a moment, Maggie sees the silver strands where once there were only tawny gold ones.  She sees the haunted shadows under his eyes and inwardly winces.

“So why did I have to relive this one event, Maggie?  So I could help myself come to grips with the fact that I have no memory of killing Moran?  Well, it didn’t freaking work, did it?”

Maggie shakes her dark head.  “Did any of those memories come back to you John?”

“You’d know if they had.”

“I’m truly sorry, John.   You have to know that those particular memories may never surface.”

“That implies I do have them, Maggie.  That I just have to pull them up, somehow.”  His voice is near despair.

She holds up one hand.  “You were dying in the Wellington, John.  Physically, your synapses were already failing.  Your last conscious act, the final thing you did when you were literally and actually dying, was to save your partner, the most precious person on this earth to you.  Your last conscious thought on this earth, John Watson, was of Sherlock Holmes, your One Thing.”

He looks back at her evenly and his mind makes the connections.  He traces his actions from the first night he met Sherlock to his actions at the pool, his reactions to Moriarty’s mental jibes and Moran’s abuse, to the Wellington – and beyond.

He sees it.  And she’s right.  Undoubtedly right about all of it.

But in the end … well, in the end, he thinks, Sherlock Holmes is mad and John Watson madder, so what does any of it signify?  He will always protect Sherlock.  Always.  And if that means that John Watson dies one day, so be it.  As long as Sherlock lives on.  John cannot conceive of a world without Sherlock Holmes in it. 

His smile is briefly deprecating.  Maggie finds something inexplicably sad about it.

“If you’re right, Maggie, and you probably are – ”

“Yes, John?”

“Maggie…” he chooses his words with care. He can’t say out loud to her what he just thought. He cannot lay himself so open.  Not to Oakton.  Not to anyone.  He _cannot._

In the end, he takes the path of least resistance.

“I was a doctor _and_ a soldier, Maggie.  We are trained to heal, to protect.  And when necessary, to fight.”

There’s a moment of silence when neither of them speaks.  Maggie watches him.

John is instantly reminded of an encounter from his time at Bart’s.  A visiting surgeon, female, former US Army Corps, led a memorable lecture on TACEVAC – Tactical Evaluation Care.  John remembers how she would make her point, then wait patiently for the lightning bolt of understanding to strike.

Maggie has that look now.  She waits for something from him but damned if he knows what that is.

Uncomfortable under her scrutiny but unwilling to acknowledge it, John tries to shrug it away.  “I was a soldier, Maggie.   It’s what soldiers do.”

She leans forward to tap him on one wrist.  Her voice holds a touch of sorrow.

“ _Was_ a soldier?  Oh, John.  You never stopped.”

**OooOooO**

 

John has been gone nearly an hour for his appointment with Oakton, when Sherlock finally rouses himself from the sofa.  He sits up and buries his face in his hands.  His long fingers tug at his messy curls in desperation.  His facile mind goes back over the last few days, leading up to this morning, before he texted John the terse reminder of his appointment with Oakton.

Clearly, John had over-reacted to his discovery that Sherlock was speaking with Dr. Merit about John’s health.  There is no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that he has the doctor’s tacit approval to discuss his health with his medical practitioners whenever and wherever needed. 

 No doubt at all.

The last two days have been hellish.  He is so used to John’s bright presence, that the two men, although they argue on occasion, both make up their disagreements quickly as neither one can bear to be upset with the other. 

But in this instance, the silence continued unabated.  Sherlock waited for John to come to his senses and apologize.  He waited in vain.  Then he wondered if he should apologize.  It’s what people in relationships do, right?  When one of them is wrong.  They apologize.   Damned if he knew what to say in this instance.

_I’m sorry I’m concerned over your health and that I consulted your physician behind your back?_

Yes, that might work.  Only … only he feels there is more at work here than John’s anger over a simple conversation. In the end, he remained silent. 

More than once, Sherlock was aware of navy blue eyes glancing in his direction.  The detective lay on their sofa, engrossed in research on his phone and ignored the looks, ignored John.  But inside, he was troubled, both by his own actions in the Bed and Breakfast, yes, but most particularly, by John’s.

Sherlock showers, changes and leaves the flat.  Outside Baker Street, he glances up and down the road, then walks away, his long stride eating up the sidewalk.   The tall brooding figure with the wildly-curling dark hair is imposing and more than a few passers-by give him a wide berth.

Several blocks away, Sherlock stops on a corner and pulls out cigarettes.  In deference to the John voice that lives in his head, he first pulls up his sleeve and peels off and discards three nicotine patches.  The snap of the lighter is music to his ears.  The first puff is Nirvana. The second and third, bliss. 

The detective stands back from the street, chain smokes, and ignores the security camera a few feet away.

He mentally replays the events of the past two days, beginning with John leaving the flat and ending with the doctor’s return, after he had recovered from his attack at Clara’s.

Sherlock was confused over John’s reaction to his call to Merit.

He was angered when John left the flat, without giving him a chance to explain.

And he was startled when he received Clara’s text, stating that John had suffered an attack, but seemed much better and had refused all medical intervention.

 Sherlock blows out a puff of smoke and narrows his eyes at the street.  He goes over the sequence of events again.

 _John overheard me speaking with Merit.  John voiced his displeasure.  John left_ .  _John had a panic attack in the cab, nearly falling onto the street. John returned, exhausted but seemingly okay._

He lights a new cigarette from the butt of the old.

He starts again.

John was angry.  John left.  John had an attack.  A bad one, if Clara is to be believed.  Sherlock must take her text at face value.  Clearly, if John required medical aid, she or Harriet Watson would have obtained it.

He texted back, asked if John needed immediate assistance, medical or otherwise, and she promptly replied that the doctor had refused all aid and seemed much better.  Also, that he was on his way back to Baker Street.

When John re-entered the flat, it was obvious he was tired, but he volunteered no information and Sherlock sought none.  The interminable silence continued another day.

As he stands and smokes, Sherlock ignores the occasional pedestrian stares.  He and John are, after all, minor celebrities in London.  He has long since become inured to idle curiosity. He smokes and thinks over the past few months.  In particular, he replays John Watson’s actions and reactions to certain events.  He leaves nothing out, including a near total recall of the ex-soldier’s voice, mannerisms and patterns of speech.

Finally, Sherlock sorts the events in order, A to B to C and on to Z, and comes to the only logical conclusion.   John must leave.  It’s the only solution.  It’s the only way Sherlock can keep him safe.  Isn’t it?

A sick feeling born of panic roils in his stomach.  He can’t.  He cannot do this.  He can’t even suggest it and John?  John, of course, will refuse.

Won’t he?

But what other solution is there?  John has been in more or less constant danger since their association began.  Relationship or no, the doctor must be made to see reason. 

It’s reasonable.  It makes sense.  It’s the only logical solution.  The only way Sherlock can keep John safe.  John must leave him.  Today.

Then if it’s so logical, why does his heart hammer away in his chest, as if sounding a death knell?

At the thought of ordering the soldier away, Sherlock feels physically ill.  And more than a bit terrified.

So where does that leave the both of them?

 

It’s during his seventh cigarette, that he turns his head to observe the CCTV camera a few feet away.  It turns in his direction and he lifts the cigarette in mock salute.

He is not surprised when the black car glides to the curb.  What does surprise Sherlock is that it took his interfering brother three quarters of an hour to find him.  It’s not as if he is hiding, for Gods’ sake.

Sherlock takes a last drag on the cigarette, tosses it into the street, and gets into the back seat of the car without a backward glance.  Anthea sits alone in the far corner, the ever-present phone in her beautifully manicured fingers. 

“I’m to take you home and collect a violin,” she says quietly.  Her eyes do not waver from the small screen in front of her.  Her fingers fly over the keys.

A month earlier, Sherlock would have answered in snide tones, if he bothered to respond to her at all.  Now, cognizant of what his brother’s PA has endured, and out of respect for the agent she is engaged to and to whom he and John owe so much, he merely shrugs and looks out the window.

The car makes a turn around the block and deposits him back at Baker Street.  The entire ride has taken less than ten minutes.

He gets out, then leans in and fixes Anthea with a stare.

“Kindly tell your employer that if he wishes the violin, he can collect it himself.”

Her voice is a low musical note.  “He’ll be upset.”

“Then the afternoon won’t have been an entire waste,” Sherlock snaps.  He slams the door and turns as the car pulls away.

Sherlock enters Baker Street and takes the steps two at a time.  In their flat, he shrugs out of his suit jacket and tosses it at his chair.  Then he crosses to the window, opens it halfway and pulls another pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. 

He lights cigarette after cigarette, mentally rehearsing his words.

He waits for John Watson to return to Baker Street. 

Perhaps for the last time.

**OooOooO**

John takes a cab home and thinks about his session with Maggie while he watches the scenery pass by.  London is beautiful in the fall.  In the late summer, as it is now, not so much.  The tourists are hot and bothered.  They trudge from one sight to another, their hair limp and hanging in their eyes, their vacation clothes limper.  London citizens rush from the over-crowded tubes to air-conditioned office spaces, their faces red and flushed with the English heat. Traffic is a bear.

He shuts his eyes and mentally replays Maggie’s voice as she tells him he has never stopped being a soldier.  Perhaps she is right.  And John is damned if he knows where that gets them.

Ultimately, all he can think of is reaching Baker Street.  And Sherlock.

He and Sherlock are going to most definitely have this out.  This stupid _thing_ between them.  And then they will be back on track.  _Right?_

Ultimately, he thinks of his extreme reaction at Sherlock’s conversation with Merit.  And wonders just what in hell is wrong with him that he could be so angry, so fucking mad at the man he loves and who was obviously concerned over his health.

He wants the cab to hurry.  He wants it to slow down to a crawl.

The cab pulls up to the familiar black door.  John hands bills to the driver with a murmured “Ta very much,” and climbs out to stare up at the windows of Baker Street.

If Sherlock is home, then John expects to be greeted by cool silence.  No matter, he can do the talking for the both of them.  He expects to have to apologize, after all.

He most definitely does _not_ expect to see smoke wafting out of the upper window.  It isn’t billowing as a house afire would do, but it’s most definitely smoke.  _Shit!_

John fumbles with his key, jerks the door open and hollers.

“Mrs. Hudson?  Mrs. Hudson! “

He pounds on her door.  Then pushes the door open and does a quick recon of the flat.  No one home.  Right.  She and Doctor Fields are out.  Thank God.

He takes the seventeen steps two at a time, hitting the squeaky stair and bounds through their open door.

Smoke fills the room and he waves it away from his face while he shouts, “Sherlock!  Sherlock!”

“John.”

The detective turns from the window where he stands, smoking.  An ashtray sits on the ledge next to him and the smoke of too many cigarettes to count circles his head and fogs the room. 

 _What the bloody fuck_ –

“Really, John. Anyone would think the place was on fire.”

Sherlock takes a final drag and crushes the last cigarette out in the overflowing ashtray.  He stands with his hands in his pockets and regards the tiny tornado that has swept into their flat.

Where in hell did he get that many cigarettes so fast?  John was certain he’d hidden them all but then, he has been away for the afternoon and the idiot, of course, went out and bought more.  And, oh shit, of course.  The day before, when Sherlock disappeared before John was awake.  Of course.

All thoughts of whether he is a soldier first or a trained medical doctor disappear as John Watson, M.D., RAMC strides across the room, waving smoke away from his face and trying not to inhale too much.

John crosses to the second window, opens it as far as it will go, then grabs up one of his medical journals and begins to waft the smoke out the window.  He stares murder at the detective.

“What in the bloody hell do you think you’re doing!”

“Thinking, John.”

“And that required – what?  An entire pack of cigarettes!? 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Fine.  Two packs.”  At the detective’s continued silence, John’s eyes widen.  “Three? Bloody hell, Sherlock.  Three friggin packs of cigarettes?  In one day?”

“It was a three-pack problem, John.”

“That’s not possible, Sherlock, even for you!”

Sherlock shrugs.  “I never said I smoked them all in one day, John.”  He continues to stand, his hands thrust into his pockets. To be honest, he is a bit amused by John’s anger.

“Just – shit! Ever heard of lung cancer?  Emphysema?  Stroke?”

John picks up the ashtray as he speaks and carries it to the bin.  And where in fuck did Sherlock even get an ashtray?  He would be willing to bet there’s never been one in the flat before this day.

“If none of those scare you, what about a very incensed Mrs. Hudson when she finds out you’ve been smoking in the flat?”

“She’s away for the day with Thomas Fields, John.  I hardly think any smoke will be left to bother her by the time they return.  Besides, you are overreacting.”

John bins the butts, gathers the top of the sack in a knot, then grabs a tea towel and wipes down the surface of the window ledge, before Mrs. Hudson sees the mess.  Mrs. Hudson.  John groans internally.  Good God, he hopes their landlady is out long enough for the smoke to clear the room.

Angrily, he tosses the towel in the sink, then crosses to the door of the flat and pulls it to.  He glances around the room and notes that a great deal of the smoke has already cleared.

He turns to confront the detective. Sherlock stands a few feet away, staring at John.  His eyes are a pale greyish-green today, no trace of blue. 

John crosses to him and gets up in the detective’s face.  John may be a half-foot shorter but what he lacks in height, he more than makes up in righteous indignation.

“What in hell is going on, Sherlock?  You’re usually not this much of a twit.”

The detective shrugs, his eyes never leaving John’s face.  “You were gone.  I saw an opportunity.”

“Wrong.  You saw the chance to royally piss me off, Sherlock.”

John reaches to bunch his hand in the fabric of the dark shirt, the one John always equates with thunder clouds and English rain. He yanks the detective toward him.  Buttons threaten to pop.  But the detective moves toward him and makes no effort to stop John.

Instead, Sherlock stands a scant few inches away and looks down into the doctor’s dark eyes.

“I detest repetition, John.  But as you often require it, you were gone.  I needed to think.”

“And 49 types of cancer-inducing agents help you do that, do they?”

“What is the real argument, here John?  Because it’s not my occasional indulgence in smoking.  You knew that about me shortly after you came to live with me.”

“This is not ‘occasional indulgence,’ Sherlock and yeah, I knew that,” John says, his voice thick with anger.  He continues to keep hold of the taller man’s shirt.  And finds himself wondering what the taller man would do if the soft fabric did tear.

He decides not to test it. 

He looks up into the detective’s face, then his gaze drops down to the throat and the suprasternal notch, back up to the dark curls, tumbled around his face, his intense gaze, the fog-pale eyes, laser beams filtered through smoke.  John swallows.  His anger ebbs away nearly as fast as it occurred.

Sherlock is too thin, still.  He hasn’t been eating enough regularly and John wonders when he let this fact escape his attention.

“Sherlock, just tell me outright.  Are you trying to get me to leave?  Because this utter shit you’ve put me through the last two days has got to stop. This smoking nonsense is nearly the final straw.”

Sherlock is silent, but some part of the detective flinches beneath the doctor’s hands.

But John cannot see his face as he is too busy staring at the detective’s shirt.  John releases the soft fabric, uses one hand to smooth down the wrinkles.  Then he looks up into Sherlock’s face. 

He tries to remind himself that it was his intention to apologize to Sherlock.  But then he sees the utter devastation on the taller man’s face.

“Oh, God, Sherlock.  I didn’t mean – you just pissed me off and I thought –“

A gut-wrenching fear takes hold of John’s heart and his eyes widen.  His left hand convulses by his side.

“I’m not leaving Sherlock…unless…”

He tries to swallow past the rock in his throat.

“Unless that’s what you want.”  He takes a step back the better to see his lover’s face.

He thinks his heart stops beating.

Sherlock looks at John and for a moment, John sees the same fear in the crystalline eyes that he knows must appear in his own.

“John – “   Sherlock takes a breath and John sees the too thin chest heave.

Before either man can speak, somehow they are pressed together chest to hip, wrapped around each other.   John lays his head against the soft shirt and his hands grip it at the waist. 

The detective enfolds his soldier in his long arms and bends his dark head toward the bright one against his chest.  After a few moments, he clears his throat softly.    

“Oakton.  The session ?”

John shakes his head, his voice muffled against the silk shirt.   “Not now, okay?”

The detective nods.  After a moment, he tilts his head and rubs his cheek back and forth over the silver blonde hair.

Sherlock’s voice is hoarse and John suspects that most of it has little to do with the smoking.

“I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking the past few days, John.”  He murmurs the words into John’s soft hair, afraid to stare his soldier in the face.

John tries and fails for levity.  Instead, his arms tighten around the detective’s waist.  “So what else is new?”

Sherlock straightens to his full height and pulls back reluctantly from the doctor.  “You should get away from me, John Watson, as quickly as you can.”

John doesn’t speak.  He can’t.  His pulse pounds in his ears. 

Sherlock’s speech seems rehearsed and at the words, John’s heart sinks.  

 “It’s more than obvious that I will destroy all chances you may have for a fulfilling life. I will not use the term ‘happy life,’ as I do not think it’s possible at this point, for either one of us.”

John barely trusts himself to speak.   “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that, Sherlock?”

Oh, God, w _hat in hell brought this on? One simple argument?  Two days of silence?  Or the session with Oakton?  Or ….  Of course.  Moriarty.  The Wellington.  Exploding bombs.  The mansion a wreck around their ears. His wandering mental state.  Mycroft.  Regina._

Sherlock shakes his head. He puts his hands back in his pockets and stares at John as if to memorize the man’s face and features for when John will not be there – which should be approximately twenty-two minutes, if the doctor packs quickly enough.

“Let’s recap, shall we? Since this partnership began, you have been kidnapped, twice by my own brother, I might add.  Tortured, shot and drugged,

“You gave your stubborn heart permission to cease beating for three minutes, John.  Two of those broken ribs were my doing, or did you even realise?  I pounded on your chest and shouted obscenities at you until you began to breathe again.  You spent weeks suffering neuromuscular pain, exacerbated by the very treatment we thought might save you." 

Sherlock stares at John and his crystalline eyes are suspiciously bright.  “Your medical license has been revoked.  And over and above this abuse, you spend your days and nights doing what amounts to babysitting a grown man with serious social and control issues.  I will be the utter ruination of you, John Watson.”

John looks into the eyes he loves above all others and tries to gain control of his heart rate.   He hears the seconds as they tick past.  He must tread carefully or all is lost. 

He tilts his head slightly, the better to see the taller man.

“If you mean ruin me for a relationship with any other human on this planet, Sherlock Holmes, then you have already done so. If you mean ruin me for any other occupation?  Same answer.”

Sherlock merely shakes his head _. The idiot still doesn’t get it._

“You have become a target, John. And will be again. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it other than to order you out of my flat. And out of my life. And I am doing so.  Now.  Here.  Today.”

John looks him up and down once, slowly, deliberately. The slightest smile curls his lips.

“Go ahead. Pretty sure I can take you. But let’s see.”

Sherlock frowns, but does not answer.

John moves a bit closer.  Another small step.  Closer still.  Until he can reach out and his fingers brush against the smooth fabric of the thunder-cloud colored shirt.

“Maybe it’s you who needs to hear it more than once, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watches.  He tries for icy indifference – and fails miserably. John smiles again.

“I’m not going anywhere.  Not now.  Not ever.”

Sherlock shakes his head.  John stares, rapt, as the dying afternoon light steals in to stain the dark curls crimson.

The ex-soldier wants to reach for the lanky idiot in front of him.  He aches to reach out to hold, touch.  To soothe.

And it is the one thing he dare not do.

 _“I cannot make this move_.  _He has to be the one who reaches for me. If he cannot do this one thing, if we can’t get past this – then we’re lost.  It’s all been for nothing.”_

John watches Sherlock, whose inner turmoil is so obvious.  For once, his feelings show clearly over his beautiful face.  John holds his breath. 

Empires rise, fall and crumble into dust.

Sherlock continues to look downward into the dark blue eyes, now turned the color of the deepest of ocean depths.

The detective’s countenance betrays his confusion and dread.

At last, _at last,_ thinks John, the consulting detective seems to come to a decision.  He lifts one pale hand, which absolutely does not tremble, and brushes a comma of white-gold silk away from John’s forehead.

“You’ve gone gray in my service,” he whispers.

 John says nothing.  Instead, he places one warm hand at the other man’s waist. His fingers tighten in the dark fabric.  Tighten and hold. 

Sherlock’s hands lift to cup the doctor's face. John feels micro tremors through the long, cool fingers.

“One might comment you have made a foolish choice, John Watson,” he says, his voice utterly wrecked.

“One might be an idiot,” John replies softly.

Sherlock looks from the pale hair, to the pale eyebrows and lashes, downward to the lines under and around under John’s fathomless eyes and on to the small nose and finally, to John’s mouth.

One corner of the amazing lips twitch upward.  It is the barest of smiles. But John’s soul rejoices to see it.

Sherlock speaks softly and John feels the velvet rumble go through his soul.

“Ah, well. Let us be idiots together then.”

He pulls his soldier close and tilts his head toward John’s.

As the soft lips brush his, somewhere in John’s mind, he hears the faintest of bells chime.

As if his soul and his alone, recognizes what kind of victory this is.

“Sherlock,” he whispers.

The deep voice is a liquid caress.  “John.”

The two men stand wrapped up in each other.  The detective holds his soldier close. John doesn’t pull away. 

They might have stayed that way for an age. 

If not for the determined steps upon the stairs.  

Sherlock groans and rests his chin atop John’s shining head.  “Bloody Mycroft.”

“Again?” 

John’s hands have just warmed to their task of gripping fabric, brushing against warm skin.  Now he glances toward their door.

The steps come to a halt and there is a determined knock.  Sherlock lifts his head from John’s in exasperation.

“Go away, Mycroft!” he shouts.

The door opens and John forces himself to take two steps away from Sherlock. He crosses his arms and stands next to the detective. He can feel the taller man’s body heat and revels in it.

“Really, Mycroft?  Whatever it is, can’t it wait?”

“Obviously not, John.  Or I would not have come by, for the second time this week, I might add,”

Mycroft looks from Sherlock’s visage, seething with quiet rage, to John’s determinedly casual stance.  He raises an eyebrow.

“I see I have interrupted yet another scene of domestic bliss.  Very well.  I will be brief.”

He steps farther into the room and balances his umbrella against John’s chair.

“Two meetings in one week, Mycroft, necessitating your leaving your office or the comfort of the Diogenes?  Has the proverbial hell frozen over?    Please.  Make yourself at home, by all means.” 

Mycroft smiles back.  Shark to piranha.

“Charming, Sherlock.  As always.  My visit is, of course, about the violin.”

“Oh, for the love of God, Mycroft.   Timing!”

The elder Holmes shakes his head.  “My apologies, both of you.  But I really must insist that I take the instrument in question away from here for further examination.”

Sherlock stands aloof, his hands in his pockets.  “For God’s sake, Mycroft.  I’ve gone over the thing twice.  There’s nothing to be seen.”

John glances at the corner of the flat where the violin lives in its case, the same corner where the Strad once lived.

He looks back at Mycroft. 

“Mycroft, just what is it you hope to find?”

“I have no idea, John.  But the violin came from the Holmes estate in France.  I have sent someone to investigate the circumstances of its disappearance.   The fact remains that the violin was sent here for a reason.  And deliberately substituted for the one you initially purchased.”

He glances from the doctor to his brother.  “There is obviously a motive, gentlemen.”

Sherlock shrugs.  “And you don’t think I would have found it by now?”

The elder Holmes brother just raises that damn eyebrow again.

“Then where is the harm in having my people take a look?”

Sherlock throws himself down in his chair and prepares to fight it out.  His truce with John is still fragile and he can feel the warmth of his soldier’s lips on his.  But Mycroft’s intimation that he has let something slip rankles.

“Don’t you have a small war or two to stave off?  How can you justify expending your time in this manner?”

John sighs.  He pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger.  They will be here all afternoon if the brothers go on in this vein.  All he wants now is for Mycroft to take the damned thing and leave so he can have Sherlock to himself.

“The continued safety of both of you _is_ my business, Sherlock.”

Sherlock glares at his brother.  “And I’m telling you the instrument is just a violin.  Beautiful, with a provenance, but still a violin.  Nothing more.  And I refuse to allow it to leave Baker Street.”

“And you are certain of that, dear brother?”

John finally intervenes.  He’s had enough.  “Mycroft, I personally watched Sherlock go over the thing with a magnifying glass.   He found nothing off about the violin.”

“Nothing off about the violin…”.  Mycroft’s voice trails off.  “But it’s not _just_ a violin, is it, Sherlock?”

There is dead silence.  Mycroft glares at his brother.  Sherlock stands, buttons his jacket, and glares back.  Then frowns. 

Of one accord, all three men turn their heads to look at the violin in the corner.

John crosses to the instrument, hefts the case and carefully carries it over to the desk. He snaps the locks open, then stands back. Sherlock stands, buttoning his jacket.  He reaches around John and gently removes the violin.  He hands the instrument to Mycroft, who carefully deposits it on Sherlock’s chair.

Sherlock turns back to John and the open case.   John shrugs.  He glances into the now empty case.

Red velvet, a small compartment that holds resin and extra strings, and the soft rag Sherlock uses to wipe the beautiful wood and bow. 

Nothing else. 

John feels a soft pang when he remembers the extraordinary custom-made case the Strad lived in.  This one, in contrast, seems rather ordinary.  He frowns as Sherlock lifts the thing to examine it more closely.  Mycroft stands beside them.  Sherlock ignores his brother.

Sherlock’s long fingers prod over the velvet covering. He opens and shuts the small compartment, then feels gently around the edges.  He frowns.  Nothing.

At last, the detective lays it down on the desk.  He removes his magnifier from a pocket and proceeds to go over the inside of the case.  No one speaks.

Finally, he drops the magnifier in his pocket and holds out a hand.  Automatically, John hands him the letter opener from their desk.

Sherlock nods his thanks.  With the pointed tip, he gently pries at one corner of the deep red velvet.

Nothing,

He continues to test the edges of crimson velvet, poking carefully with the metal tip of the letter opener, slowly making his way around the entire case. 

Still nothing, until he comes to the last few inches of fabric.  This time, a small bit of velvet comes up as the tip of the opener slides easily under.  Sherlock raises one eyebrow, then hands the opener to John. 

Gently, the detective uses thumb and finger to lift the crimson velvet. There is the faintest of tearing sounds as the fabric comes away from the wood surface beneath it.

There is stunned silence while the three men stare down at what is revealed.

“Oh my,” says Mycroft.

“Well, hell,” says John.

 “It was never the violin,” says Sherlock.  He continues to stare downward.

 “It was the case,” says John.

**OooOooO**

 

  Written under the influence of so many artists, I can’t even…..

Adele

Verve

 _Say Something._   Artist:  A Great Big World

One particularly angsty episode of the X-Files.

And Dorothy Sayers most excellent **_Busman’s Honeymoon_** – a Lord Peter Wimsey book.

**OooOooO**

Notes to my faithful Readers:  I have asked a great deal of you and for those of you who had to give up, well, you won’t’ be reading this note, will you?  LOL.

For those of you who have hung in there with me, Thank you a hundred times over.  Your support and comments have meant the world to me.

Take care, Always

‘sky’


	21. Chapter 21

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One:  ACCLAMATIONS**

 

**Ch. 21**

  **STORM WARNINGS**

**OooOooO**

**Dozens of exotic blooms in glittering crystal vases to my Beta, SHERLOCKSSCARF, who came through literally at the very last minute.  This chapter is tighter, crisper and has the sharp scent of impending danger due to her eagle eye.**

 

**WARNINGS:  None to speak of.  Mention of dead body. John Watson is a BAMF.  Mycroft can be a cold-blooded ass.  Sherlock is rude.  We love Molly Hooper !**

  **OooOooO**

Every mystery novel I ever read, the great detective was such an arrogant fuck you could replace 70% of his dialogue with 'Are you stupid?' and the conversation would still make sense.

[NisiOisiN](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/919024.NisiOisiN), [Zaregoto 1: Book 1: The Kubikiri Cycle](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/2535326)

 

**OooOooO**

At first glance, John thinks he sees a stylized pictograph in the deepest Indian ink, such an intense blue it appears black.   He notes seemingly random swirls of indigo against the slightly lighter grain of the violin case backing.

He blinks and the letters arrange themselves into something resembling words.  They are phrases painted in French, he thinks, which he barely reads under the best circumstances. 

But it is not the unfamiliar words that make his gut clench.

It’s what is stamped above them – a small, roughly-inked impression which stands out against the paler wood.  It appears to be a simplified version of the RAMC crest.

And above that, a single word inked in script, no more legible than the others.  He narrows his eyes to attempt to make it out.  No luck.

John’s eyes move back to the crest with its single serpent.  _What the royal fuck?_

Beside him, Sherlock gasps slightly, and then stiffens.   The detective turns abruptly and walks to the window and stands there, his elegant back to the room.   He does not speak, but his fists clench in his suit pockets.

John glances up at Mycroft.

The elder Holmes brother frowns, and then bends to snap two photos with his mobile, which seems to appear out of nowhere.

He straightens, shoots a quick glance at his brother’s silent figure against the window and turns away from John.  His fingers find and tap a speed dial and five seconds later, he speaks urgently with his PA.

At the window, Sherlock considers the plane tree outside, his mind a whirl. He knows John frowns, that a small line bisects the perfect space between the soldier’s pale eyebrows.   He knows this without turning to see John’s face, as he knows so many things about the doctor.

For instance, he knows that John’s left hand clenches and unclenches.  He knows the doctor’s dark blue eyes, a moment ago the color of the deepest ocean on a clear summer’s day, have now turned a murky shade, doubtless with puzzlement.

He knows that John is confused and that, in about eight seconds, the doctor will turn to observe Sherlock at the window to demand answers.

He has none to give.

Sherlock knows that John does not read French, and even if he did, this particular phrase would be beyond the soldier’s skills.  As it is, it takes the sleuth all of three seconds to place the quote and when he does, it still does not keep him from flinching at the painted phrase. 

It’s not the words that bother him, well, not so much.  It’s the RAMC insignia.  And the single splash of red ink that bisects it.

 John reaches out with a hesitant fingertip.

Mycroft returns to stand by the violin case.

“Best not, John.  Prints,” he says, his tone flat. 

“Yeah.  Okay.”  John notes the stiffness of Mycroft’s posture and the rigid set of his shoulders.

“There won’t be any,” says Sherlock.  Nevertheless, John withdraws his hand.

Mycroft studies the insignia and its flowing inscription for a moment, then looks across the room where his brother stands, framed by the light from the window.

 John glances from one man to the other.  “Someone care to fill me in?” he asks.

“Sherlock,” says Mycroft, his tone a prompt.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock answers.  He does not turn toward the room.

 _God save him from stubborn Holmes brothers._    John looks back down at the inky swirls.

 _Tattoo.  It’s an RAMC tattoo.  Only . . ._ his thoughts trail off and his left hand clenches against his side.  _But what is the single word painted above it?_

“Tenacious,” Sherlock supplies.  His tone is void of expression.

 “Okay,” says John. He no longer bothers to marvel at the fact that the detective frequently answers his unspoken thoughts.

 “And this means what, exactly?”

Try as he may, John cannot read the dark letters. He muses out loud. “It’s the RAMC insignia.  Well, nearly.” He lifts his head to look into the elder Holmes’ eyes.  “Could it be – well.  Is this a _code_ of some sort?”

 “You might call it that,” Mycroft muses.  He waits for his younger brother to speak.

“This is – it’s French, then?”  John tries to master his growing impatience as he glances back at Sherlock.

 “Yes, John, obviously.  Do try to keep up.” 

John’s eyes narrow.  “Are we done playing silly buggers?” he asks coolly.

Mycrofts mobile rings in his pocket.  He fishes it out, listens for a moment, says “Now, please.” And drops it back in his suit pocket.

 “Sherlock.”  This time Mycroft’s tone is a warning and John has frankly had it up to here with noncommunicative Holmes brothers.  He crosses his arms and stands back from the violin case.

“No, Mycroft,” says Sherlock.

John’s eyes narrow as he looks from one brother to the next.

“It has to be done, Sherlock. I’ve been remiss.   It should have been done several days back. And now –”

Sherlock finally turns to face the room.  He ignores John’s growing irritation and addresses his brother.

“And now that there’s an interesting puzzle, you want to take it away. Typical.”

 “Okay.  Enough.”  John moves to stand next to Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth clenches in a thin line. He doesn’t want to see John’s eyes.  He can’t look at his killer healer just now.  A rush of images fills his mind’s eye while the events of the last few weeks play out in his brain.

 _He cannot.  Not now._   _Not after the drugs and hospital stays, the lingering doubts about John’s health and possible long term effects of Franks’ injections.  He thinks of the growing belligerence John has displayed in the last few weeks.  His vast mind replays the events in the Wellington and at the mansion and later, in the Holmes estate.  John, pulling them all to safety.  Mycroft’s dead agent.  John’s body next to his as they lay under the stars and the trees._

_He. Just. Cannot._

“Sherlock,” John says. The ex-soldier’s voice brings with it a wash of hot desert winds and the sweet tang of gun oil.

The detective opens his gray-green eyes to look down into dark blue ones gone the color of gunmetal, a perfect match to John Watson’s voice of steel. 

John looks up at him steadily; one strong hand rests on the detective’s wrist. 

Sherlock straightens.  _What did I ever do to deserve this remarkable man?_

John tugs at his wrist.  “Come on.  Explain this to me so we know what we are facing, yeah?”

 _And I said danger and here you are_. 

He opens his mouth to speak but it’s Mycroft’s cool tones that interrupt the tiny interlude. 

“ _Je peux être assez tenace, Monsieur Holmes. Garde ton chevalier.”_

Mycroft’s accent is impeccable.  John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s wrist, then lets go.  He stands back.

“My apologies, John.  I know you do not speak French,” Mycroft says. 

“This isn’t father,” interrupts Sherlock.  John frowns at the detective’s slightly hoarse tones.  He glances between the two men. 

Mycroft looks at his watch, then at his brother.  “Agreed.  Some secondary party appears to be involved here.”

“Adair,” Sherlock says. 

Mycroft’s shoulders raise a fraction of an inch.  John fears he may get whiplash looking from one tall Holmes to the other.

John clears his throat.  “And you know this isn’t – Nicholas Holmes -- because?”

“Our father never spoke French around us, John,” Sherlock says steadily.  He watches Mycroft steadily the entire time he speaks.  “English, German, Italian, Latin on occasion, but never French.” 

John frowns. “Not sure what you are saying here,” he begins.

“Our mother is half French, John. When they had a falling out, he stopped using the language.  In fact, he forbade the both of us to speak it around him. This is not something our father would do, besides the obvious fact that this is theatrical and childish.  This has the sense of a game being played.”

“A game?”  John stares at the detective.  _Someone else used to play games with Sherlock Holmes._

He starts to speak but Mycroft goes on, “May I remind you, brother mine, of the name given to this particular instrument?”

“Yes, yes, Mycroft. Obvious.  Again, absurdly theatrical.  It only serves to point to Adair.”

Mycroft smiles grimly at his younger brother, then turns toward John.

“Would someone please tell me what this damn thing says,” John asks.  His tones betray his utter lack of patience.

‘ _He’s getting angrier by the minute_ , Sherlock thinks.  _Any minute now, any second --_

Mycroft crosses to the case and hesitates, one hand on the hasp.

 “It says, ‘I can be tenacious, Mr. Holmes.’   

Sherlock stirs in impatience.

Mycroft continues.  “Actually, the more exact translation is “I can be stubborn, Mr. Holmes.”  I believe this to be an obvious word play on the name of this particular instrument.”

“Which is,” John prompts.

“ _Tenace_ ,” says Mycroft.

“ _Tenace_ ,” John repeats.  “ _Tenace_.  As in … tenacious?” 

He turns toward his Holmes, who merely nods.

John sighs.  “Okay.”  He looks back at Mycroft.  “And the rest of it?”

“Guard your knight,” says Sherlock, his voice hoarse.

John’s eyes narrow. A single pulse begins to pound at his temple.

No one bothers to ask who the ‘knight’ in question is.

All three men look into the open violin case, its torn crimson velvet ripped back to reveal the rough outline of the RAMC insignia, missing its laurel wreath.  The word _Tenace_ is painted at the top in a swirl of dark ink where the crown would normally appear.  The French phrases in question take the place of the motto _In Arduis Fidelis._

And all three men stare at the single bright splash of red paint that bisects the rod of Asclepius.

A single line.  Like a dagger.

Or a sword.

 

**OooOooO**

Lori holds the lovely dress in front of her and studies herself in the mirror.  Behind her, Joe lounges on their bed, a small orange kitten in his hands.  He tickles the kitten’s soft stomach and the dimunitive creature bats at his large hand and purrs.

Joe laughs and looks up at Lori.

“Gorgeous,” he says solemnly.

“Do you really think so?”  Lori presses the silk fabric against her and frowns.  “Is it too –

“Too what?” Joe prompts.  The kitten jumps at his wrist, then attempts to crawl up his arm.

Lori sighs.  “I don’t know. Too long?  Too short?  Too tight? Not tight enough?  I usually don’t have a problem with being so short.  Never mind, Joe.   I have no idea what I’m saying or doing lately.” 

She crosses to the closet to hang up the lovely creation.  Her small hands gently smooth away a wrinkle or two.  She shuts the closet door.  It wouldn’t do to have cat scratches up and down the cream-colored silk.

Joe scoops the kitten up and sets it on his broad shoulder.  Then he stands and crosses to his lady love.  He bends to hug her gently, his arms going clear around the small body.  Lori lays her head against his chest and listens to his strong heartbeat.  The kitten plays with the ends of her hair. She smiles softly and touches a velvety paw with a fingertip.

“What’s really wrong, Sweetheart?”  His voice is softly muffled against her dark hair.

She considers.  “Nothing.  Everything.”

“It’s your Dad, isn’t it?”

Lori nods and tries not to cry.  She rubs her cheek against the cotton of his shirt.  “Yeah.  I mean.  I know it’s silly –“

“No, it’s not.  Of course, you want him here.  I’m just sorry that it’s not going to happen.”

Lori shuts her eyes.   She can hear the kitten purring.

“I know.  And I’d be silly to keep dwelling on it, Joe.”

“But?”  He pulls back and frames her face with his two large hands.  She smiles up at him.

“I do have an idea, however.”

Joe scoops the little cat off his shoulders and holds it in his palm, purring gently between them.

“Tell me.”

She does.

He grins.  “I think it’s fantastic.  You should call him immediately.  In fact, I’m surprised you haven’t done so already.”

“But it’s so last minute.  I didn’t even think of it until last night.  But, well, it just seems to be right, you know?”

He smooths an errant strand of hair back from her face and looks into her dark brown eyes.

“Call him now.  Immediately.  I bet he says _Yes_ before you can get the words out.”

Lori’s eyes light up.  “Truly?  Okay then.”

Joe sets the kitten back on his shoulders and crosses to the door.  “I’ll leave you alone to make the call.  Someone’s got to do the cooking around here.”

Lori grins and picks up her cell phone.

“John Watson.”

“Doctor Watson?  It’s Lori Hansen.  I – I have a favor to ask.”

“Whatever it is, the answer is Yes.”

She laughs.  “Wait until I ask.  You may not agree so quickly.”

 

**OooOooO**

Molly Hooper drops her two bulging totes on her desk and exchanges her knitted jumper for her familiar lab coat.  She glances around the morgue, hums appreciatively at the obvious cleanliness of the surroundings – good to know that things were kept up in her absence - and goes for coffee, her ponytail  swinging.

A few minutes later, she returns with a steaming cup of insipid brew.  It won’t compare to the frankly amazing French coffee she has enjoyed on her extended vacation in Paris, but it’s liquid and it’s hot and that’s all that matters.

She pushes through the doors of the morgue, and then stops.

A tall man, a stranger to her, stands a few feet away.  Everything about him from his dark suit to his direct manner and focused gaze screams official business.  She looks from him to the draped body on the gurney in the middle of her morgue.

 “Ms. Hooper?  My name is Jacob Lynn. Welcome back from vacation.”

Molly’s eyes widen.  “Welcome – back?” she croaks.  She clears her throat.  “Sorry.  I’m sorry.  You just startled me.  A bit.”

“I apologize.  That was not my intention.”

Jake tilts his head at her.  This is when she notices the bandage on the side of his head, where his curls have obviously been shaved.  There are bruises still evident around what must have been a serious head wound.

Suddenly nervous, Molly clasps her hands in front of her and aims for calm professionalism.

A slight smile plays around Jake’s lips.  He’s taken an instant liking to Sherlock’s Ms. Hooper. 

“I – how did you know I have been on vacation?”

“Well, it wasn’t a secret now, was it?”  As if he senses his presence causes her discomfort, he attempts to put warmth in his voice.

She frowns.  “No.  No, I guess not.”

Jake turns toward the gurney with its silent form.  A file folder lies on top of the sheet that drapes the body.  Deftly, he hands it to her.  She takes it from him and frowns in confusion.

 “This young man’s name is Ryan Jones.  We need to know what killed him.  We suspect a delayed poison of some type, possibly cyanide or a derivative.  We need to know how it was administered.  And we need to know it now.”

Molly glances at the printed label on the file folder – a short series of letters and numbers which mean nothing to her - then flips it open and reads down the page. 

“I believe you will find everything in order.”

“I, yes.  It appears to be.  But this is very rushed.  I have seen my schedule today and – Oh.”

“Yes?”

 Jake Lynn regards her closely and without knowing why, she senses his gaze takes in everything from the top of her ponytail to the toes of her comfortable trainers she wears at work.  As if he approves of what he sees, he smiles at her. 

The smile serves to lessen her nerves, as intended.

Molly taps her finger against the signature at the bottom of the page, suddenly intrigued.

 “M. Holmes?” she says.  “I only know one Mr. Holmes and he’s –“

“A close relation,” Jake says.   “I assure you, this has the highest urgency.  Is there anything wrong with the forms?”

“No.  I mean, it’s fine,” Molly says.  She bends her dark head to re-read the file.  _M.  Holmes? Sherlock’s brother?_

“Ms Hooper?”

Molly looks up at Jake Lynn.  Despite his obvious attempt to put her to ease, this unknown man remains frankly intimidating. 

“Now that the preliminaries are out of the way, how quickly can you begin?”

**OooOooO**

**Dear Readers,**

**I wish I had a cracker jack excuse for my long absence.  I don’t.  Just depression and its aftermath.  But this, too, shall pass.**

**I am known for writing gosh-awful long chapters.  I have decided that  shorter ones, but more frequently posted, may work better for my readers.**

**In quick response to a query from an eagle-eyed reader a few chapters back, why do I occasionally use American terminology during Lori Hansen's thought processes or actions?  Example:  cell phone rather than the British "mobile."  Simple. Lori is American.  I have her pick up her cell, cross to her closet (rather than cupboard), etc. to play up her American background.  However, 99% of my characters are British.  And I endeavor to use the British terminology with them.  I don't always succeed but if you spot something I have missed, please let me know.**

**I hope all of you are well.**

 

**Take care, Always**

**‘sky’**

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**These lads in their current incarnation belong to the BBC and not to me, and in their original incarnation to the Estate of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, may his name be blessed.**

**SHERLOCK AND JOHN – REBELLION OF ANGELS**

**Part One:  ACCLAMATIONS**

 

**Ch. 22**

  **EVENT HORIZON**

 

The greatest of Thanks to my Beta and friend - SHERLOCKSSCARF - who positively excels in strengthening my storylines!  Thank You, Sweetheart !!

 

**Warnings: High Strangeness.**

 “Evil was coming. I wondered whose face it would be wearing.”

  
― [Dean Koontz](http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/9355.Dean_Koontz), [_Odd Thomas_](http://www.goodreads.com/work/quotes/4574034)

 

**OooOooO**

John drops his mobile and turns toward Sherlock, grinning.

The detective sits in his chair, his impossibly long legs stretched out, with his hands templed in front of him.  He stares at nothing in particular.  He does not even glance up at John.

“Yes, yes.  It’s obvious.  Ms. Hansen has asked you to give her away as a father surrogate.  It’s about time.”

John stands in front of Sherlock, his hands on his hips.  “Just once.  Just once, oh, I don’t know, maybe once every three months, can I be the first to tell you my news?”

Sherlock drops his hands and regards his intended.  “Oh, all right. John, whatever did Ms. Hansen request of you that has you so happy?”

“You know what, Sherlock?  Shove it.” 

John wheels and goes to their room, thinks better of it, then jogs up the stairs to his old room.

The detective can hear the sturdy footsteps as they cross the floor to the cupboard, stand a moment, then come back down the stairs.  

“Sherlock –”

Sherlock stands and holds out a silver piece of plastic.  “Here.  You will need a suit and our wedding suits aren’t ready yet.  They would not be appropriate anyway.  And for God’s sake, get something decent, John.”

John takes the credit card reluctantly and studies it a moment.  He glances up at Sherlock.  “Mycroft?”

“He was being annoying.”

John sighs. “Yeah.  Right.  You’re not coming?”

“I believe any of my suits will suffice for Ms. Hansen’s wedding.  I think you can manage to shop for something adequate, John, without my assistance.  Besides, I have work to do.” 

Sherlock crosses to the window and pulls back the curtain to stare out at the street.

“Yes, I can see what you have to do is incredibly important.”

“Sarcasm, John.”  The detective drops the curtain and studies his killer-healer.  “I will be studying the copy of the insignia that Adair had painted on the violin case.  Both you and Mycroft took adequate shots of it.  I have the copy you forwarded me here.”

He brandishes his mobile.  “It will take concentration.”

“Of course.”  But John continues to stand and look at the other man.  “Sherlock –” he begins.

“It’s fine, John.  Just go.  And here – ” he turns and walks to John to hand him a small business card.  John takes it and glances down.

“Gieves and Hawkes?

“Adequate for the occasion, John.  ‘They have a fairly decent line of ready-to-wear. And time is of the essence, isn’t it?”

“Well, the wedding _is_ Saturday.”

Sherlock turns John around with his large hands and shoves him toward the door.

“And this is Thursday. Off with you.  And don’t come back without something more appropriate than that horrid suit you last wore to the Wilder court case.”

“I’ll have you know that suit has stood me in good –”

“It’s horrid, John.  It should be burned.  In fact – hmm.”

John turns at the door.  “You wouldn’t dare.”

Sherlock smiles, one of his rare genuine smiles that tumbles John’s heart in his chest.

“The faster you leave –”

“Yes. Yes. I’m going.”

The soldier stops at their door again, turns and comes back to the detective, who watches him approach.

John reaches up and Sherlock reaches down. The kiss is warm, not as long as John would like but there will be time for that later.

“Okay.  I’m off.”

Sherlock watches him go.  Then he crosses back to the window and watches as his paramour crosses the street. 

“—the faster you can return,” he says softly.

**OooOooO**

 “Yes, Mrs. Holmes.  I’ll see to it.” 

Mrs. Robinson turns to leave her morning meeting with Regina Holmes, thinks better of it and turns back.  She places a small brown envelope in front of the Holmes monarch.

“What’s wrong with my memory?  This came for you in this morning’s post.  I’ll be right back with your tea.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Robinson.”

Regina Holmes finishes her notes on the computer in front of her and saves her file.  She removes her reading glasses to rub her tired eyes.

The envelope that Mrs. Robinson delivered beckons.

She picks it up and glances at the unfamiliar writing on the front.  In vivid indigo ink, the name _R. Holmes_ and her address adorns the front of the envelope.

The postmark says London.  There is no return address.

Regina frowns and reaches for a beautifully inlaid enamel letter opener.  The envelope is bulky and so tightly sealed, that at first the opener refuses to slide through the glue on the back flap.  It tears slightly as she opens it.

She shakes the envelope and something small and solid tumbles out.

Regina stares.  She picks it up and turns it over.  The varnish gleams as she turns it this way and that.

She still holds the small object, which gleams in the light from her desk lamp, when Mrs. Robinson comes back in, a tea tray in her hands. 

“Well, my goodness.  Whatever is that?”

“You know,” Mrs. Holmes says slowly.  “I really don’t know.  There is no return address.”

She looks up sharply.  “Was this in with the rest of the post, Mrs. Robinson?”

The housekeeper shakes her head. 

“There wasn’t anything else.  Just that envelope.   I took it from the postman myself.  It’s been lying on the front table, waiting for me to bring it up to you with your tea.”

Regina nods.  “How odd.”  

She lays the item back on the blotter and regards it.  “I recognize what it is, of course, but why it was sent to me…” 

Her soft voice trails off and she picks up her mobile.  A few taps and her eldest son’s voice can be heard.

“Mummy?”

“Mycroft.  The strangest thing just came with today’s post.”

As they talk, Mrs. Robinson does her best to tune out the hurried conversation, as she busies herself with Regina’s tea.  She adds milk and lemon, then picks up the tray.

The door opens behind her and Deborah Sakai comes in.  Eugenia Robinson’s eyes widen when she sees what Deborah holds.

“Mrs. Holmes?  The oddest thing was sent to me.  Sorry.  You’re on your mobile – oh.” 

This as she notices what sits on the desk in front of her employer.  Deborah glances from the small object on the desk to the similar item that rests on her open palm. 

“Mycroft?  Hold on, son.”

Regina Holmes glances up at her assistant and at what she holds out toward her.  She raises an elegant eyebrow.

She does not take her eyes off Deborah as she speaks to her eldest son.

“Son? You might want to send someone out here.  It seems Ms. Sakai has received a similar item in today’s post.  What?  Very well.  We will have them ready.”

She sets her mobile down with a click and stands.  Hesitantly, she reaches out to pick up the object off her blotter.

The two women, Regina Holmes and Deborah Sakai stand beside each other – and stare at the two small, near identical items.

Eugenia Robinson shakes her head and leaves with the tea tray.

“Too many strange things happen in this house, if you ask me,” she mutters under her breath.

Of course, no one asks her.

**OooOooO**

Mycroft drops his mobile on the leather seat next to him and watches the scenery pass his window.  The car has excellent sound-proofing and the motor is a barely perceptible hum in the background.  His driver is efficient and silent, as always.   All of which allows him to think about the strange information his mother just imparted.

On the seat beside him, the Cremona violin rests in its case with the ominous message hidden from view.  His fingertips brush against the surface of the case as he considers the mystery of the instrument stolen from the Holmes estate in France – the antique violin originally owned by his uncle, Mycroft’s own namesake.

Mycroft frowns at London as it passes by.  One of his people has been dispatched to the Holmes estate to collect the items from Mummy, but it irks him to know that someone other than himself will be on hand for her.  Alternately, there is work to be done, his people are reliable and efficient and he cannot go traipsing over the countryside at Mummy’s merest whim. 

The items will be in his possession soon enough.

_Still …_

He fingers the Albert chain that holds his pocket watch.  Abruptly, Mycroft pulls up the watch and snaps open the case.  He glances at the time, and then snaps it shut again.  He balances the fact of someone else collecting the items against what information may be gleaned from being on the scene itself.

A familiar ring tone chirps from the mobile on the seat next to him.  Anthea. 

“Mycroft Holmes.”

“Sir, the afternoon post brought a small package.  We took all the usual precautions –“

“And?” he prompts.  A sense of foreboding causes him to use a sharper tone than he intended.

“I think you might want to see this, Sir.  I’m sending the file.”

“Please,” he says and hangs up.  He taps impatiently on his mobile case – once. Twice. Three times. The notification sounds.  He thumbs open the small file and considers the photograph of the item balanced on his PA’s palm.

“Right,” he says aloud.

“Sir?” his driver asks.  Really, the acoustics in his car are most excellent.

“Kindly have my PA cancel my request for a courier at my mother’s estate.  We will drive there in person immediately.”

“Certainly, Mr. Holmes.”

As the car changes lanes, preparatory to leaving the city, he wonders whether or not he should call his brother. 

Mycroft’s long fingers hover over the call button.  He finally decides to wait until he sees their mother.

**OooOooO**

Some hours later, at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson hands John the afternoon post as he comes through the front door. 

“Thanks, Mrs. Hudson.  Have you seen his nibs?”

“Upstairs, John.  As far as I can tell, he’s been in all afternoon.  And please slow down on these stairs, John.  Honestly, sometimes it’s like a herd of elephants going up and down.”

John grins.  He takes the bundle of envelopes from her, one of them rather bulky, as he endeavors to juggle the post in one hand and his new suit, carefully pressed and bagged, in the other.  He finally drops the post into the shoe bag he carries and bounds up the steps.

True to her observation, the echo of his footsteps reverberates through the otherwise quiet hallway. 

Despite the noise, Mrs. Hudson watches him and smiles.  And wonders if the doctor even realizes how far he has come that he is able to do this simple thing - take the steps two at a time. 

Their door is open and John comes in with a cheerful whistle.  He crosses to his chair and carefully lays the suit across its back.  He drops the bag that holds his new dress shoes on the floor.  He retrieves the post from the bag and glances through it.

Sherlock stands in front of the window, one slim hand holds back a curtain as he looks out at the street below.  He turns as the doctor enters.

“Ah, John.  Finally.  I see your errand was successful.” 

The detective glances at the suit draped over John’s chair, then turns back to observing the scene below. 

“Yes.  Believe it or not, I was able to shop all by myself.”

If Sherlock notices the ex-soldier’s sarcastic tone, he ignores it.  Instead, he keeps watch over Baker Street below them.

John fishes out Mycroft’ s purloined credit card, which he did not use, and drops it onto their coffee table for the detective to find.  He tosses various envelopes on the table until he comes to the largish brown one.   He does not bother handing any of the post to Sherlock. The detective never bothers with it.  If there is something interesting, John will tell him. 

“You know, John, that just watching the street below gives you fascinating insights into the human mind.  Example, the woman in the unfortunate shade of green, at the crosswalk below.  Obviously on her way to a job interview, which will be unsuccessful due to –”

“Translation - Sherlock Holmes’ violin was taken away and now he is bored,” John says good humoredly.  He holds up the bulky envelope with his name on it and hefts it in his hand.  It is heavier than he expected.  His thumb slits the envelope.

“Really, John, it can’t all be running around and – ”

“Sherlock.”

“-- chasing criminals through the streets.  You were the one who said we needed to take a rest –”

“Sherlock.”

The detective breaks off at the tone of voice and turns, a frown line settling in between his pale eyes.  “John?”

John stands still and stares at something he holds on the open palm of his left hand.    Sherlock crosses over, glances at the small pile of bills, adverts, urgent entreaties from potential clients and one brown envelope that lie on their coffee table.  The name _John Watson_ and their address is scrawled across the front of the brown envelope in deep blue ink.  

_Postmark, but no return address. Odd._

Then Sherlock looks at the object on John’s hand.  He observes his soldier’s rigid stance.  At the same time he sees the tiny needle-like projectile that sticks out of the half-opened lid.  His heart begins to race.

“John –”

“Sherlock, there’s a note.  Fell to the carpet.”

“Okay, John – but do not move.” 

“Not moving,” John whispers.  His hand is rock steady. 

The detective watches the ex-soldier for a moment to make sure he remains still, then bends to retrieve the single sheet of paper on the floor at John’s feet.  He glances at the printed words.  And his complexion turns paler, if that is even possible.

Sherlock frowns.  His eyes narrow as he glances from the note to John.  His soldier’s hand, arm and body are entirely steady. 

But small beads of sweat dot John’s hairline. 

Sherlock looks down at the half sheet of paper. And at the black letters that jump out at him.

**_If I were you, John Watson,_ **

**_I would refrain from moving._ **

**_A  note of caution from a concerned friend._ **

 

“You began to open it, John.  And then stopped.”

“Yes, well done,” John says.  “I slipped the catch and this – thing – sprang out.”

Sherlock looks at him sharply.  “Some sort of spring mechanism.  John!  Were you –”

“No.  It did not stab me. But it was a near thing.”

Both men consider the small hinged box and the gold-colored spring protruding from the half-open lid.  It has a sharpened edge that subtly gleams in the afternoon light.

“Can’t be a bomb, Sherlock,” John’s voice comes as a loud whisper, not entirely certain why his normal speaking voice comes out as a harsh whisper.  “If it was a bomb, just the act of sending it through the post would discharge it.”

“Don’t be so certain about that.  Postal marks can be faked.  Do not move, John.” 

“I ran up the stairs with it just now.  If it were going to go off –”

“Valid point, John.  Please stop talking.”

Sherlock’s mobile is in his hands, but he pauses, his thumb over the call button to Mycroft.

“Again with the not moving,” John says quietly. “Who are you calling?  Mycroft?”

“I was.”

“What’s stopping you?” 

Both men continue to study the object in John’s hand.

“John, what you said about a bomb being set off  –”

“Well?”  John demands.  His fingers begin to itch.  The sensation is maddening.  “Well?”

“John, the odds are 97% that it’s harmless – that this is a sick prank – but what if it is set off by the transmission of digital signals.  Such as in a –”

“Mobile phone,” both men say simultaneously.  

Sherlock nods.

John does not nod but he does say quietly, “Good point.”

He glances down at the wooden box that rests in his hand and then up at Sherlock.  And is taken aback at the  look of utter fury on the detective’s face.

_Oh shit._

“Can you text?” John asks.  A trickle of sweat drips down his spine, plastering his shirt to his back.

“Not certain I should risk it,” Sherlock says grimly.  He lets his hand open and the printed note drops to the coffee table.

“This cannot be happening,” John says.  He glances quickly at Sherlock, whose pale eyes have not left the box balanced on his lover’s palm.

“You said he was dead,” John says.  His voice is steady as his hand.  Sweat drips down the side of his face from his hairline.

“Dead and buried, John.  Both of them. And it’s probably not an explosive but we have no way of--  Mycroft.”

“The bugs?”

“Bloody hell,” Sherlock says.  He is loathe to raise his voice.  “Mycroft, if you are monitoring, get the bomb squad here. Now, damn it!”

He looks at his soldier’s grim face.  John’s complexion has paled beneath the faint tan.

**OooOooO**

After he sits through tea and afternoon sandwiches, Mycroft finally makes his escape. He settles back in the soft leather seat and fingers the objects he retrieved from Regina Holmes and Deborah Sakai.

He frowns as he turns them over in his hands.  And decides that he can no longer wait.  A call to his brother is definitely in order.

But before he can bring out his mobile, his driver interrupts him.

“Sir?  There seems to be a situation at your brother’s flat.”

**OooOooO**

“John, how long can you continue to –”

“Long as it takes,” John says with grim determination.  Sherlock nods.

Then they hear it.  Both of them recognize their landlady’s footsteps.

Her cautious footsteps come closer, then stop just outside their door.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock says.  “Do not enter this flat.”

Their landlady stares across the short distance at her boys.

“Sherlock,” Her face is pale and she rings her hands.  “Your brother called my landline.  Says to tell you that the bomb squad is on the way.  And to tell John not to move.” 

Sherlock nods.   “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.  Now please leave.  Quickly.”

“And in case anyone is still paying attention, I have no intention of moving,” John says with grim intensity.  “Mrs. Hudson, get out of here.  Now.  Leave the building and go stand across the street.”

She nods, but turns at the door. Both men can hear the quiet concern in her soft voice. 

“Mycroft says it’s probably as safe as houses, but best not take a chance.”

“Glad we got that straight,” John says.  His right hand is clenched by his side.  He slowly, cautiously opens his fingers, just to release tension. His left hand begins to ache from the strain of holding the box steady.

Mrs. Hudson walks cautiously back down the steps.  A moment later, they hear the front door open and close.

Sherlock crosses to the window.  He looks out and nods once when he sees the landlady cross the street.

“She’s safe,” he says.  He keeps his tone as neutral as he can make it.

A tickle is working its maddening way up the ex-soldier’s throat.  He fights the urge to cough.  Instead, he says, “Mrs. Turner – the married ones?  God, the afternoon crowd at Speedy’s?”

“None home, John.  She’s out of town and her tenants are away at work, both of them. As for Speedy’s, panic might ensue if we –”

“Better panic, Sherlock, than injury.  Or death.”

The detective nods.  “Quite right.  But I insist we are overreacting here.”

 _You hope, Sherlock. You hope we are overreacting._   But John does not voice these thoughts aloud.

Sherlock pulls out his mobile again, stares at it for a second, then lays it on his chair with a loud "Damn!"

He looks desperately at his soldier.

"John -"

"I know," the soldier says. "Go."

With one last glance at John, Sherlock crosses to the door and then thunders down the stairs, mentally cursing all the way. 

John listens as the detective's solid footsteps recede.  He hears the front door open.  Then, nothing.

He knows Sherlock will be right back.  He knows this.  But the utter and deafening silence in their flat threatens to overwhelm John's senses.  A drop of sweat slides down his neck.

He looks down at the box.

_I don't know who you are, but by God you will pay for this one. That's a promise, you utter, utter bastard._

 After a hurried conversation with Mr. Chatterjee, Sherlock uses the man's landline to make a frantic call to Emergency Services.

"Already on their way, Mr. Holmes.  And I do recommend most urgently that you vacate the building as a precaution."

Sherlock slams the mobile down.  To hell with that.  All he can think of is getting back to John.  Now.

He takes the steps two at a time and arrives back by John's side before the first cafe patron has even left the building.  He quickly goes to the window to watch the exodus of clients cross their street. No one runs but they certainly aren’t dawdling. Most of them rush hurriedly down the street, away from Baker Street.  A few recognize Mrs. Hudson and stand with her on the corner, silently watching their building. Several people point mobile phones in their direction.

John waits for the detective to give the all clear, which he does by a simple nod from his position at the window.  He briefly shuts his eyes in relief.

The ex-soldier fights to remain still, as he tries to keep his knees loose and unlocked.  That is what makes soldiers pass out at parade rest – locked knees.  He wants nothing more than to fling the offending object away from him, then bend his knees and flex his hands.

Instead, he goes over a calming mantra he learned once in therapy. 

It doesn’t work.

John forces a slow, deep breath into his lungs to help steady his hand and his nerves.  The desire to close his hand over the sides of the box, to squeeze just to restore circulation to his fingers, grows stronger.

He doesn’t move.

Sherlock crosses toward John and bends down until his eyes are on a par with John’s palm.  The pale eyes narrow as they pore over the deep mahogany surface.  He walks around John and peruses the box from the other side.

_Nearly 14 centimeters by 11, perhaps a bit more.  Hinged.  There’s the edge of a label on the bottom.  I cannot make out the fine print and cannot ask John to move his hand. Other than that, no identifying characteristics.  Just a hinged box. And one wicked-looking spring.  Someone has gone to a lot of trouble to make the mahogany-colored surface gleam._

The question is: how long can John hold this thing steady?  And does it matter?  Obviously, it was bounced up and down in the shoe bag.  Are they being just a bit gullible here?

Sherlock frowns and his thoughts break off.

“John?  There’s a label on the bottom of this but your palm is obscuring it.  How heavy is it?”

“Heavy enough,” John says.  “Maybe a half pound, maybe a bit more?  Seems too heavy for its size.”

The detective shakes his head.  “Not if it’s holding a mechanism inside.  The weight is just about right, John.”

He walks slowly around the soldier again and studies the box from all angles.

“No other identifying marks.  If I could just –”

“Sherlock, get the fuck out of here.  Now,” John says grimly.

“John, the odds are 97% that it’s just an ordinary box that the sender has modified to – ”

“When the odds hit 100%, talk to me.  In the meanwhile, get the hell out of this flat,” John says.

Sherlock looks at him.  Then shakes his head.  “No, John.   Someone’s idea of a sick joke.  There is no valid reason for you to order me out of our flat.”

“Then why in hell did you tell me not to move, hmm?” 

His left hand remains rock steady, but sweat pours freely down the sides of his face.

Sherlock crosses to the kitchen area, and comes back immediately with a dish towel.  He gently mops John’s face for him, as if the doctor were performing delicate surgery and Sherlock were his nurse.

The detective tosses the towel behind him and crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Sherlock – please!”  John says, his voice quiet but tinged with desperation.  “Please, love.  Just get the fuck out—”

“No, John.”

“Sherlock, I don’t know how long I can hold the blasted thing steady.  Just leave. Let the bomb squad take care of this.”

Both men hear the scream of an approaching siren.  Sherlock hears it as the tires of several vehicles come to a screeching halt outside 221 Baker Street.

“Anthea’s on the ball,” Sherlock says quietly.  His eyes have not left John Watson’s face.  His soldier’s dark blue eyes lift from their perusal of the hated item to Sherlock’s face.  The two men look at each other.

Sherlock glances from John’s pleading eyes to the box and back again.  His mind sorts through recent events.  He attempts to fit this new fact in with the puzzle of the violin.

He can’t make it fit.

“Sherlock, they’re here. For the last time, I want you out of here, just in case.  For fuck’s sake, do this one thing for me.”

Sherlock straightens and looks directly at John.  He takes in his soldier’s stance, the way his right hand clenches and opens, in an attempt to release pressure.  He studies John’s face, set and determined under the light tan.  Warmth sweeps over him and he – nearly – smiles.

His dark curls shake.  “What part of ‘No’ did you not understand, John Watson?” he says softly.

John glances at his love and his thin lips purse.

“You are the most arrogant, maddening, dictatorial, childish son of a bitch that it has ever been my pleasure to –”

“You love arrogant, maddening, dictatorial – I’m going to ignore the ‘childish’ bit – and really, John, is this the time for profanity?”

“Never better.  Sherlock, please!”

“No, John.”

Sherlock can hear voices downstairs.  The bottom door to 221B opens. Several pairs of heavy feet march determinedly up the stairs. 

A stern voice calls out, “Holmes?  Watson?”

“Up here.  I do recommend you hurry.”

He swiftly crosses to the window once more.  There are three emergency response vehicles parked outside.  The scream of a fire engine can be heard in the distance.

“Christ,” John swears, under his breath.

“Okay, what have we got?” The voice belongs to the first responder, who bends to set some equipment on the floor.  His partner stands beside him and behind them both, a third person hovers with more equipment. All three individuals are dressed in heavy body armor.

Sherlock drops the curtain and turns his back on the window, just as his brother’s dark car glides to the curb opposite 221B.

He addresses the three men who stand behind John Watson.

“Gentlemen,” he says grimly.  “We appear to have a problem.”

**OooOooO**


End file.
